


Can't Stop Christmas

by heavensfallingaroundus, soft_science



Series: thunder [1]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Kingsman (Movies) RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, Take That (Band)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Age Difference, Christmas, Daddy Issues, Gen, M/M, Phone Calls, Phone Sex, Rocketman memories, Texting, baking lessons, piano lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 54,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science/pseuds/soft_science
Summary: One should never be lonely at Christmas—not even in 2020.Thankfully, (almost) every day of December reminds Taron of how much he's loved. In very different ways.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Colin Firth
Series: thunder [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2117814
Comments: 255
Kudos: 43





	1. Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Happy Christmas, Taron," his dad says.   
> On December 1st.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin: an Advent calendar of stories about Taron, for you to enjoy while we count down to Christmas together.
> 
> The E rating is for a couple of explicit chapters that we'll be peppering here and there. Don't expect a smut marathon: think more romcom with the occasional hot twist. Perfect to keep us all warm during one of the coldest month of the year.
> 
> We really hope you'll enjoy this. We've really enjoyed writing it ❤

“Alright then, Taron. Good talking to you, mate.”

They’ve only been on the phone about… Taron glances at the clock on his screen. Six minutes. “Yeah, you as well, Dad.”

“Oh and, you know, happy Christmas and all that.”

Taron answers, says something back, does his usual “love you” that goes unreturned, that’s standard, but what he’s thinking the whole time is _It’s December 1st. He said happy Christmas. Is this the only time he plans to talk to me all month?_

And then the call’s over, and he’s sitting in that feeling that wells up after every phone or video call ends this year, when the solitude surges in to fill the sudden vacuum left in the other person’s wake. He has gotten terribly familiar with it since March, and knows to brace himself for the downward pull. 

But he knows this one is different. It’s different because it’s Dad, it’s David, and the wake he leaves has always felt much larger than he has any right to generate, after all these years.

Taron sighs. Happy Christmas indeed. How many more days to this season, again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping it short and sweet today, a tad of necessary angst to get us started, but it gets _so_ much better. Promise.
> 
> Please consider subscribing for that sweet notification in your inbox every. single. day. of. December. (gods, the pressure, but we love it really).
> 
> Coming up: Taron calls up a trusted co-star and friend.
> 
> See ya then,
> 
> S and C xx


	2. Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How do you do it, James_ , Taron texts Jamie Bell at 3 AM, on December 2nd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fan favourite is stepping in today.
> 
> As a wee bonus, you can find the song of the day [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/2didxSDf5Voq20LdbSksOL?si=XQcInJc1S8edtKaVBgBObA). We'll be giving you a song every day, and we'll put them all into a neat little playlist for you at Christmas ❤

_How do you do it, James_ , Taron texts Jamie Bell at 3 AM, on December 2nd.

Because he can’t stop thinking about it. About him, his dad. About the stilted conversation they’ve had, earlier in the evening.

 ** _How do I do what?_** Jamie almost immediately texts back. 

**_Also, what the f are you doing up, mate?_ **

**_Nice to hear from you, though. Always :)_ **

Taron smiles down at his screen and sits up in bed. He decides to try something.

 _Probs easier if we could talk on the phone. You busy?_ He tries not to get his hopes up too much—Jamie has a family to take care of, a wife, a small child. He probably is busy.

**_Not right now, gimme a sec_ **

**_Putting the little one to bed_ **

_Take your time!_

Jamie doesn’t, not really, because exactly three minutes later Taron’s phone is already ringing and a tired-sounding Northern accent is ringing in his ears.

“‘Ello you.”

“Hi,” Taron replies, smiling again as he presses the phone closer. “How are you?”

“Nah, mate, how are _you_? What’s going on? What did you mean, ‘how do I do it’?” Jamie asks, sounding bemused and a tad concerned.

Taron bites his lip. They’ve more or less touched on this subject before, but. It’s been a while since they’ve talked about it. Since they’ve talked, in general. Does he really want to—

“I was just wondering,” he says, before he can think too long about it. “I was just wondering how you do it. With your kids. I’ve seen you with them, you’re such a good dad.”

“You flatter me, brother.”

“No, seriously! It really is amazing. And it got me thinking, because... How are you such a good dad yourself, when, you know…”

“...when mine didn’t even bother to stick around?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“I mean,” Jamie replies after a brief moment of silence, sounding confident but still pensive. “Kate helps me a lot, you know. Couldn’t do it w—”

“No, actually,” Taron interjects, just barely registering that he’s clenched his fist in frustration, “I meant specifically, like... how are you a good dad to Jack? You know, with the divorce and everything. Must have been hard on him.”

“It has. I think it still is, you know. In some capacity. Again, Kate is great with him, too, couldn’t have asked for anything more from her, but…” he pauses. Clears his throat. “It is hard. He doesn’t remember what a _normal_ family is, I don’t think.”

Taron feels something happen inside, then. Something that hurts a bit. Something that needs to be brushed off with a joke.

“As ‘normal’ as a Hollywood family can be, eh?” he says, chuckling a bit, hoping it won’t sound as fake as it is.

Jamie, well. Jamie reads through his bullshit, it seems, because he doesn’t acknowledge the joke.

“You know what I mean, T,” he replies, gentle. “One that’s not a bit broken.”

Taron can’t ignore it again, the rush of emotions is too strong now and he takes a gulping sort of breath to keep from welling up.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Jamie echoes. “But Taron, wanna know something? I think he’s really, really happy, these days.”

Taron sighs. “You’re right. He looked happy… that video you sent, with the Legos, what a triumph.” Taron smiles remembering it. “He’s proper happy, isn’t he. Even with the split.” 

“Yep. Evan and I… It wasn’t meant to be, as much as we tried believing it was. But she’s a force of nature, and a bloody brilliant mum. And myself, well. I just try my fuckin’ best, don’t I? It’s everything I can do. And even if there are times when he’s asked, he’s wondered why things are the way they are, and I’ve miserably failed to explain because I’m as much of a clueless child sometimes… Even if I can’t explain it, and even if he doesn’t understand now, I think one day he will. You know, when he’s older? I think he’ll know why.”

A tear rolls down Taron’s left cheek, and he nods and wipes it away without thinking. “Yeah, he will. He definitely will.”

“And I hope he’ll forgive me,” Jamie adds, sounding like he’s mostly talking to himself.

Taron scoffs. “What the fuck are you even on about, mate? You’re an _amazing_ dad! You actually see him, have conversations with him, you’re seeing him grow up!”

“Taron?” Jamie says, in a softer tone that makes Taron realise that he’s most definitely just raised his voice and he’s absolutely given himself away—his own issues and his shameful, frustrated late night crying session. _Fuck_.

“Yeah?” Taron replies, hearing how small his own voice sounds. Trying not to hate it.

“You’d almost gotten me, there, you sly bastard. At first I thought you were considering having kids yourself, and that’s where the existential questions were coming from. That’s not it, though, is it? It’s about your dad.”

Taron considers lying for a second, but immediately decides against it. Because, really, he hasn’t reached out to Jamie this late at night to just bullshit his way through a phone call. Maybe he would have a few years ago? But not now.

“Maybe.” He still hesitates, but ends up conceding. “Yes, fuck, yes, it is. I called him earlier, and it was the usual underwhelming shit-show.”

“Oh, Taron…”

“He just doesn’t give half a toss about me. And it’s okay, really. I mean, some days I get it. But some days it just hurts.”

“You shouldn’t have to ‘get it’, though! Fuck, that, T. I know very few people who love like you do, and I know how much it means to you, this whole thing, this mission you’re on to make him love you. It’s not your fault he can’t do it the way you deserve. Your family is _amazing_ , mate, and so many more people in your life love you completely.”

“Oh, stop.”

But Jamie doesn’t stop, he keeps going and Taron forces himself to keep his own heart open to receive it. 

“Myself included, for the record!” He can hear Jamie’s fiery fondness coming down the line, and it warms him up. This is why he called, to hear this. 

“James—”

“Shhh. Listen. Stop making excuses for those who don’t love you enough. They really don’t deserve your time.”

The quiet on the line then feels peaceful, and Taron thinks he can hear Jamie breathing. 

“Must be very nice, having you for a dad.”

Jamie breathes a bit of gentle laughter into the receiver. “You wish, darling,” he replies, in a mock-flirtatious tone. “How’s your mum, anyway?”

Taron blushes. “Oh, fuck off.”

“You fuck off,” Jamie says, chuckling. “But seriously, how _is_ your mum?”

“She’s great. Wonderful, as usual.” He pauses, considers what he’s just said. “I guess you’re right, eh? Who needs that miserable sod, even if he did give me this to-die-for jawline?”

Jamie guffaws at that. “Precisely! Also, I don’t know why you’re sounding surprised. I’m always right.”

“Not really. What you said earlier wasn’t quite accurate.” He pauses, makes sure Jamie’s really listening. “Your family’s not broken, mate. It’s just… shaped differently.”

Jamie seems to consider it for a second, after which Taron can swear he can hear him smile. That usual fond grin of his, that he hasn’t seen in way too long. “Same goes for yours, mate.”

“Thank you, Jamie.”

“Any time, brother. Now go to sleep, eh? Or do you want me to read you a story? Would that help, sweetheart?”

“Absolutely fuck off,” he replies, chuckling. And then, just for kicks, “Talk again soon, _daddy_.”

Jamie laughs at that, possibly equally embarrassed and elated. “It does hit differently when you say it, no doubt about that. Maybe if I were ten years older, and you were a few younger...”

“Oh please, dear God, not you too. Good night, Jamie.”

“Good night, Taron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had to get Jamie involved somehow. Since he's the master of daddying, and he has absolutely zero daddy issues himself, he seemed like the obvious choice to talk Taron out of his misery. 
> 
> Coming up: Taron's world gets filled with coffee and sunshine. And he gets roped into an actual feud.
> 
> See you tomorrow for more,
> 
> S and C xx


	3. Hugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's a Sam's Club?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone,
> 
> Day 3 is a special one. 
> 
> You'll find the sunny sunny song of the day **[here](https://open.spotify.com/track/4ofwffwvvnbSkrMSCKQDaC?si=jOCopO5pQKih57DEnVHzCg)**. _Something changed in the atmosphere_ , indeed. ;)

The FaceTime notification noise is, like, _extra jarring_ , Taron decides. Something about it pretends to be calm but there’s an insistence to the little beeps, and he doesn’t like it. Plus, who just facetimes without checking in first? Video cold calling is a bit of a faux pas, everyone knows that—

Oh. Of course. Taron smiles and thumbs his phone open.

“Hello, sunshine!” Hugh’s grin spans the width of the screen, and Taron immediately starts laughing because Hugh appears to be filming himself from overhead while walking around in his kitchen. 

“Hello, sir! Why am I above you?” 

Hugh’s eyes twinkle up at him, and Taron can’t help but note that he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of grey joggers. “Dunno, Ava does it this way so I thought I’d try it out. Do I look like I’m trending?” Hugh pauses his circuit of what appears to be the kitchen of his New York flat and purses his lips, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yes, you’re fire.”

“Excellent.” Hugh lowers the camera to eye level then.

“Yeah, set me down, don’t put your back out.”

Hugh barks a laugh. “That’s about the only way I can safely lift you up anymore these days!” 

“Oi, I’ve barely put on a half stone in lock down. And how did you even know?” Taron scowls.

“No no, I mean I’ve lost—” And Hugh casts a glance down toward his chest and arms and scoffs good-naturedly, “—I can’t lift shit these days. I’m basically retired.”

“Like the old lion in the zoo, so pathetic.” Hugh’s eyes widen in mock offense, and Taron grins wickedly as he goes on. “That’s not true, you look stupidly ripped as usual.” Hugh rolls his eyes but grudgingly nods, accepting the compliment. “Plus you’re working, I saw you in an advert just the other day! What’s a Sam’s Club?”

“You know, I’m honestly not one hundred percent sure, but it’s really big and awful and also great.”  
  
“I also nearly saw your balls in that other one. I don’t know where this retired stuff is coming from. I mean, you were literally _trending_.”

Hugh practically giggles at that, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, that was fun.”

“What’s up? How are you?”

“Good, good!” Hugh sinks into a chair and Taron can see the New York skyline through the floor to ceiling windows behind him. “Just calling to see if you wanted to join my Feud.” 

“Oh my god, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Taron smirked. “I am terrified of Ryan Reynolds even pretending to hate me.”

“But you’d be on my team. I’d protect you.” Hugh’s arched eyebrow and steely-eyed squint softens after a moment and he smiles. “Nah, we’re thinking about sending product to some friends and then having you try out the coffee and the gin, and make some posts or something about which one you pick. He’s got Chris Evans and Andrew Garfield, and I want you and McAvoy. We’ll do some superhero jokes and tie the score, make some money for charity, it’ll be fun.”

“I’m not a big enough star though, you know that, right?” Taron scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m not a superhero, I do not equal Captain America. People will be like, who’s this random… Welsh… I don’t know, tv presenter or whoever.” 

Hugh rolls his eyes. “Well that’s stupid. People know who you are, you’re a big deal, that’s just silly. But also, I want you.”

And there’s an interesting moment. Hugh’s good for those. Taron feels himself blush and hopes it’s not too noticeable as Hugh continues speaking. “So can I have the people call the people and set it up? Basically, can I send you free coffee?”

“I want a lot of coffee.” Taron smiles, and Hugh smiles back. 

“I will send a lot of coffee.”

“But don’t bother with the Aviation stuff, American gin’s shit anyway.” And Taron pulls a face.

“Ohhh!!” Hugh’s face lights up. “You’re already— yep! That’s it, that’s the spirit.” And then they’re both laughing. It feels great, and Taron decides that in keeping with whatever other spirit he’s currently feeling this week, he’ll say something about it.

“I’m really glad you called.” Then he hears his voice dip low, self-conscious but pushing forward anyway. “Didn’t really think I’d talk to you anytime soon, but it’s always really really good whenever I do.”

Hugh just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I agree. Never have a good excuse to call, between work and everything. This’ll be fun though.”

Taron nods back. “I’m eager to be your lieutenant in this war.”

“More like my squire,” Hugh muses, and Taron coughs a bit but doesn’t protest.

They talk some more then. Hugh shows him some raisin bread and a tray of muffins, and explains the bread he’s going to try to make later that afternoon with almond flour that frankly sounds ill-fated. 

“I can hear the doubt in your voice, I don’t think _you_ think it’s going to work!” 

“No, but that’s the real challenge though, the odd stuff!”

“You are obsessed with bread. You’re _obsessed_ , you started eating carbs again and now you’re obsessed.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” Hugh shakes his head. “I mean it’s this year? But also…” and he leans in to the camera conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Taron, it’s _really good_.”

The sincerity in Hugh’s eyes, the absolute and tender love for bread that radiates from his face, is truly lovely. And Taron tells him so, and they laugh some more and chat about a few more stupid, silly things before Hugh finally promises him a mountain of coffee again and then bids him farewell, still laughing.

It’s almost twenty minutes later when Taron’s heating up dinner and singing a song to Nelly that he realizes he’s still smiling. Been smiling, the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who will win the Feud? More on this very soon. Watch this space, [the official Sam's Club page](https://samsclub.promo.eprize.com/thefeud/), and [Hugh](https://www.instagram.com/thehughjackman/) and [Ryan](https://www.instagram.com/vancityreynolds/)'s IG pages. 
> 
> Coming up: Taron channel surfs, finds a gem, and the evening takes an unexpected turn.
> 
> We love you, see you tomorrow for more,
> 
> S and C xx


	4. Colin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One can never say no to _Love, Actually_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone,
> 
> Day 4 is inspired by some classic early 00's Christmastime cinema and some 2014 nostalgia.
> 
> Here's **[today's song](https://open.spotify.com/track/6FjAGZp7c0Z2uaL3eHkXsx)**. Pour yourself a cocktail, settle in and enjoy.

He’s able to hang onto that good mood for most of the next day after chatting with Hugh. But once the sun sets (and it sets so bloody early these days) it’s harder. The evening’s got him a bit blue, and a bit cranky. 

This time of year, there’s usually fuck-all to watch on telly. Every night it’s more or less the same. Tonight, for example, it’s old reruns of _Corrie_ , _Home Alone 2_ , some Marvel movie, _Half-Blood Prince_ —all in all, nothing he particularly cares for. 

He sighs, picks a peppercorn out of his G&T—yeah, alright, maybe American gin isn’t as shit as he thought, especially when it shows up express-couriered to one’s door, and impeccably gift-wrapped, with a note from Ryan Reynolds himself telling one to _enjoy the shit gin_ (he needs to send Ryan a thank-you card, and not mention that to Hugh, _ever_ )—and he turns to ITV as his last resort. If nothing’s on, he’s giving up and going to bed. He needs the extra sleep, anyways.

The scene that greets him when he changes channels is one from a very familiar movie, which looks like it’s just started. It’s a movie Taron knows very well. One he watches at least once a year when, as they say, _‘tis the season_. Right now, Chiwetel Ejiofor and Keira Knightley are getting married, and creepy Andrew Lincoln is looking on, doing his creepy video recording like the true creeper he is. But most importantly, there, amongst the guests behind them, is a certain dashing gentleman who may or may not have taken Taron’s big screen acting virginity. 

Taron grins. He can’t think of anything else he’d like to do more, right now, than getting smashed on Aviation Gin and elderflower tonic, and watch a Christmassy romantic comedy from the Noughties. 

One can never say no to _Love, Actually_.

One drink in and staring absent-mindedly at his second, he actually texts Colin. On telly is Jamie, Colin’s sad, tragic, heartbroken character, his jumper-clad figure sitting under a gazebo and writing on his typewriter, and Taron’s thinking it should be illegal that Colin managed to make such universally unflattering shapes of knitwear look this pleasing to the eye. He texts Colin right after when Aurelia, Jamie’s stunning housekeeper, sends all the pages of Jamie’s book flying in the small pond on Jamie’s property. 

Taron’s tipsy, and he doesn’t think to provide context.

He just writes, _Who on earth doesn’t make copies?_

 **_Beg your pardon?_ ** Colin replies, almost immediately.

Taron grins down at his phone as he types back, _Turn to ITV2_

**_Oh, dear God. Not this again._ **

_Oh, shush, Collywobbles —you know it’s my favourite_

**_Yeah, I remember. You simply wouldn’t shut up about it._ **

_Best Christmas movie ever_

**_I have done other stuff, you know. Accomplished._ **

_Of course you have. It made mine and Mum’s entire year when they announced a third Bridget Jones._

Colin doesn’t reply for a while, after that, and Taron worries he may have said something wrong. He stews in mild panic for exactly ten seconds, before another text comes in.

**_Very funny. Are you really watching it again? ‘Love, Actually’?_ **

_You joking? Of course I am. Was gonna do it anyways in a week or two. It’s on my Christmas checklist, Col._

**_Right, of course. Your Christmas checklist. I’d forgotten about that._ **

_Watch it with me?_ he sends, quickly and maybe too hopefully.

Another full minute passes, during which Taron’s anxiety spikes once again. Then the reply appears and he relaxes.

**_Sure, why not. It’s only me and my old chum Laphroaig, this evening, anyways._ **

*

 _You look very young in this_ , he texts, at some point, around twenty minutes later.

**_I was. Those were the days._ **

_You look not much older than me! Just a baby._

**_Oh stop. I was 42._ **

_Absolutely no way you were_

_Also can I just say—shame they didn’t get you to fight Hugh Grant for this one_

_Can’t wait for our next action scene_

**_Darling, I’m 60. It’ll involve considerably less actual action next time._ **

_How are you 60? You’re never 60. You don’t look it, honestly Col._

**_I think you’ll find I am always 60, these days. Which you should remember as you’re almost exactly half my age, correct?_ **

_That’s right, yeah. Convenient, innit?_ He’s not entirely sure what he means by that, but it’s already sent. There are dots from Colin’s end, and then they stop… and then start again.

**_I certainly don’t mind._ **

Oh. Taron feels himself blush. Then, he watches as more dots flash for a moment. 

**_You keep me young._ **

A small thrill of adrenaline rushes through him, and he replies immediately.

_Do I?_

Once it’s sent, he smiles like an idiot and marvels at the rush of blood to his crotch. He’s half hard. He knows he is. Flirting with Colin always feels like an honour and a privilege, especially since Colin is so graceful about it.

 _And how exactly do I do that?_ he adds, a few seconds later. 

**_I don’t know many people my own age who are inclined to text this much, for one._ **

Taron smiles down at his phone. He’s about to reply something cheeky, when another text pops up.

**_I miss you, Taron._ **

_I miss you too_

**_It would be lovely to hear your voice._ **

Taron blinks at the screen for exactly ten seconds, then takes a deep breath, finishes his drink, mutes the television and calls. 

“Hello.” Colin’s voice is even and smooth, and definitely conveys how deeply pleased he is with Taron’s decision to call. Taron’s hand moves to rest over his dick. Just light, passive pressure that he forgives himself for, faster than he can even start to feel ashamed. 

“Is this better then, this? Talking on the phone?” Taron teases. “More your speed I imagine, your generation.” 

“Oh, definitely,” Colin replies, and Taron can detect the smile in his voice. “But mostly it’s just good to hear your voice.” 

Taron feels a thrill go through his entire body. It’s not even particularly sexy talk. Colin just sounds so pleased to be talking to him. And there’s something else, too. Something he can’t quite yet put his finger on.

“It’s nice to hear yours too, sir. To think, we were supposed to be shooting together six months ago—”

“Absolutely maddening,” Colin confirms. “It’s been too long.”

“ _Way_ too long. Plus,” Taron says, looking at the last ice cube melting in the remains of his drink as he absentmindedly swirls it around in the glass, “haven’t we missed an opportunity, there? Whatever will we do, now that Colin Firth is officially 60 years old, and can’t do action scenes anymore?”

Colin chuckles in earnest, and tells him to bugger off.

Taron can hear him take a sip of whisky. Almost immediately, he feels himself getting harder, and has to bite his lip to stop himself from sighing. It’s the alcohol, of course. He wouldn’t be this desperate if it weren’t for the gin. Surely.

But also, the mental image of Colin, sitting in what Taron can assume is a luxurious leather armchair with his feet up and a glass of expensive Scotch in his hand, talking to him, and not anyone else—

“You’re every bit as cheeky as you were the first day I met you, you know. It’s refreshing. Please, never change.”

“And you’re every bit as _fit_ as you were when we first met, old man,” Taron says, brazen. “If that’s worth something to you.”

“[ Those pictures in the _Sun_](https://www.thesun.co.uk/tvandshowbiz/13265457/colin-firth-walk-with-bbc-newsreader-joanna-gosling/) beg to differ. Can’t believe I went out looking like a vagrant, I should have known I’d get papped.”

“I thought you looked _adorably scruffy_ —” Colin’s exasperated scoff interrupts him— “what? Colin. C’mon. Don’t make me do this.”

“Do what?”

“Stroke your ego. You don’t really need me to.”

“Don’t I?” 

“There’s at least three generations of women all around the world who would give their firstborn child for a night with you.”

“Perhaps. I don’t really care about them, though.” He pauses, and Taron stops breathing. “It’s you I’m on the phone with, after all. You’re the one I care about.”

And like that, Taron remembers. Specifically, he remembers that heady three-month period, seven years ago. He was 24, a lost soul in a new world he was pretending he could handle. Matthew Vaughn’s world, the world of big-budget action movies and starring roles, absolute exhaustion and the constant feeling of being an imposter, seconds away from being found out.

It was Colin who saved him from getting overwhelmed. Taron knows how much those nights they spent rehearsing in Colin’s trailer meant for his future as an actor. For his future as a man, really. And he remembers the admiring looks and the brushes of Colin’s hand against his shoulder or the small of his back. Remembers the way their hands touched once or twice and how it felt electric with potential, but in a way he assumed was just one-sided. 

He remembers picking up on something more, one night, during filming on the second movie. As if Colin was going to make a move, but then, at the last minute, changed his mind. 

They’ve never spoken about it out loud.

“I… I didn’t realize,” Taron lies, biting his lower lip and playing with the cord on his waistband to loosen the knot that keeps his trackies in place.

“Yes, you did,” Colin replies, fond and relaxed and _bold_ , and his voice is as impossibly posh and contained as it ever is. But there’s a low, gravelly quality to it as well, and it’s so terribly hot that Taron has to close his eyes as his hand drifts past his briefs, pushing into his palm to get some friction. “I was awfully obvious a few times, and I know you’re not that dim.”

“You’re a flatterer, aren’t you,” Taron replies, one corner of his mouth curling up while he’s still biting his lip and moving his hand up and down over his dick. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of assuming—”

“You had me wrapped around your little finger. If you didn’t realize, then I suppose I was a fool not to make it clearer.”

“Dunno if I would have dared, back then. Even if you’d told me.” Dared _what_ , he’s not even sure precisely what they’re talking about, beyond attraction and the kind of careless, kamikaze flirting they’re barrel-rolling into together right now. He certainly wouldn’t have dared to touch himself like this whilst thinking about Colin, much less actually talking to him.

“What makes you so daring tonight, then?” Colin sounds amused but genuinely curious.

“Honestly, it’s a combination of the gin, seeing you looking so heartbroken on the telly, and then, you know… everything, the world—” he stops himself even before Colin shushes him.

“Shh now, no need to go into that. So, you’ve had a drink, and the young heartthrob in the cable knit drew you in, eh?”

“Fuck that, you’re far better looking now,” Taron insists. “I’ve told you. And don’t tell me to stop.”

“I won’t. Keep going.” 

And Taron _knows_ what Colin means, knows that he’s just asking to be flattered a bit. But he indulges himself anyway, and pretends that Colin’s instructing him on what to do with his hand instead. Surely there’s no harm in it, if Colin never finds out. And no sense in worrying about the embarrassment he’ll definitely feel once he’s sober tomorrow. It feels too good at present, playing this shameless little game with himself. 

“Only if you really want me to.” He slows his hand and listens as Colin breathes laughter into the receiver. 

“Yes,” Colin starts, and Taron strokes himself again and keeps his own breathing very, very even. “Explain to me what could possibly appeal to you so much about a man my age.” Taron swears he can hear Colin shaking his head in self-deprecating amusement. 

“I think you know, you’ve seen me admire you enough times. I like just looking at you.” Taron can picture Colin’s face so clearly, classically handsome, intelligent and soulful. “Like the way your hair falls across your forehead when you’ve not had a chance to comb it back.” He thinks some more. “The way the silver’s come in. I only hope I look that dashing someday.”

Listening to Colin’s breathing through the phone might be his new favourite pastime. “Am I doing alright?” He slows his hand again and waits.

“Doing quite well,” Colin replies, softly, and maybe Taron lets out the smallest sigh of pleasure at that as he tightens his grip. “Although I can’t imagine I’m the only man in your life with a competent hair stylist. Is that all there is to it, just my coif?” 

Taron laughs and denies it. And then pauses, wondering how much he can say without making Colin uncomfortable. “It feels as though I can’t surprise you. You’ve got control of everything; you know how it all works.” He blinks, caught off guard by his own honesty.

“If only that were true, God.” Colin shifts in his chair, Taron can hear the leather creak. “You’ve always surprised me though. I mean I certainly didn’t expect to be this fond of someone—”

“Half your age?” The swell of arousal he gets just from saying the words is mortifying and unprecedented, and he closes his eyes to savour it rather than push it away.  
  
“...Yes.” The word sounds like Colin’s pulled it out of himself by force and then offered it to Taron in surrender.

“Well,” Taron hears himself say with an absurd amount of satisfaction. “There’s that, then.”

“Shhh. God, I’m terrible.”

“If you’re terrible, Col, then so am I,” Taron reasons, closing his eyes and feeling the pleasant buzz of alcohol mixed with the kind of arousal that he only feels when there’s mutual attraction with someone.

“You’re not terrible. You’re wonderful. You’re gorgeous, smart, and the most charming young man I’ve ever had the pleasure to be around.”

Taron doesn’t catch himself in time. He lets out a small, desperate noise that he knows Colin definitely heard, because he can hear a sharp inhale of acknowledgement at the end of the line. He probably should be ashamed, to have just given himself away like this. Weirdly, he’s not.

”I should’ve guessed,” Colin continues, the grin on his lips palpable, his voice a tad raspier still. “I should’ve told you more often. How good you are.”

“Oh,” Taron says, out loud, the syllable escaping his lips before he can rein himself in. Then again, he doesn’t need to. It feels right, somehow. Being vulnerable, letting Colin know what this is doing to him. Tonight, they’re floating together in a weird, alternate dimension where embarrassment doesn’t really exist.

“I like hearing you say that,” he admits, and Colin’s slow intake of breath tells him that the enjoyment is mutual. “I’ve always liked it, hearing what you think of me. And when you’d help me, you know, when we were shooting, especially on the first one. You showed me how to be a proper movie actor.”

“Rubbish, you’re a natural.” Taron presses himself against the palm of his hand at that, letting Colin’s offhanded praise wash over him with as much delight as the intentional compliments. “You’re even good at this. I wish I could see you.” Taron doesn’t interject to suggest a video call; he suspects that half of what’s enabling this whole thing is the semi-anonymous intimacy of the telephone. And he’d have to stop playing with himself. “I can almost picture you if I try,” Colin continues. “Your hair’s still clipped short, I imagine. Sitting in your living room then, phone in one hand, drink in the other?” It’s a rhetorical question, there’s no need for Taron to answer.

“No.” He doesn’t elaborate. Just listens to the silence down the line. 

“Oh.” Colin’s breathing changes in pitch just slightly. “I suppose if I asked, you’d tell me…”

“Anything, I reckon.” Taron brushes his lips against his fingertip, bent round the bottom edge of his phone.

“Goodness. That opens up a lot of possibilities.” The humour in Colin’s voice belies the tension hung between their words.

“Would you tell me something?” Taron holds himself and swipes thumb and fingers across the head of his cock, quick as you like, spurring himself forward with a jolt of pleasure. 

“You can ask.”

“I’m not as young as I used to be. Do you still fancy me, now that I’m old enough to play Elton John?” He says it with a laugh, but the curiosity is real. He knows how different he looked back when they first met.

Colin sounds thoughtful. “God you were a slip of a thing, in spite of all those muscles. I couldn’t believe you were real.” Taron listens, rapt. Even with fame, it’s rare that anyone tells him what they honestly think when they look at him. Anyone who matters, anyway. “And then you changed, all of a sudden. I suppose you had some trainer or something, but it was like magic. The next time I saw you, you weren’t…” He trails away, and something in the way his breathing changes catches Taron’s attention. “...you’d gotten _big_. It was like you grew up. And every time I see you, you’re a bit different, a bit more bloody handsome, and it’s a bit harder to look away.”

Taron has dropped all pretense that this isn’t turning him on, and isn’t bothering to hold the phone away from his half-open mouth as he breathes in time to the movement of his hand on his cock. 

“Is that what you hoped I’d say?”

Taron swallows. “Yes.”

“And it felt good to hear me say it?”

“Yeah.”

“Taron, are you—?”

Taron closes his eyes. Fuck. He can’t quite still his hand but he slows down, fear tinged with shame washing through his body as he waits for the rest of the question. It doesn’t come.

He caves. “Col, I—”

“Don’t stop.” 

Taron’s eyes fly open and he waits, adrenaline pumping, to see if Colin will be more explicit and lay everything bare. A moment, then two, and then Colin’s voice fills his ear again. “I said… don’t stop.”

The noise that escapes Taron’s lips is more like a moan than anything else, although it’s mostly breath. He’s wet, and he shifts his grip on himself, pulls the skin back gently, smooths what lubrication he’s got across the sensitive ridge at the head of his cock. It feels insanely good to do as Colin tells him, but he can’t quite bring himself to start stroking again in earnest. 

“Col, can you… would you? With me?” He bites his lip, face scrunching up sheepishly of its own volition. That was vague enough that even now, he could deny it. It would be fucking difficult? But he could. 

“You’d like that?”

“Yes.” 

“And if I told you I was, already?”

That starts Taron’s hand moving again. “Ah, fuck.” The words spill out before he can stop them.

“Shh,” Colin laughs softly through the hushing noise, then sighs and Taron _swears_ he can hear a noise, rhythmic, soft. “You’re so easy to please.” 

Taron’s cock swells at that. “I can’t help it,” he protests weakly. “I just like hearing—”

“It’s good, don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” The sound of his own laboured breathing fills his ear.

Colin lets out the smallest hum of approval. “Good boy.”

It’s like something blooms inside Taron. The words, those very specific words, touch a part of him and it opens up and fills him completely, so warm and shockingly pleasant that his hips start to rock and he thrusts into his own hand. “God, Colin—”

“Yes?” There’s a breathless edge to his voice.

“I’m getting… it’s almost—”

“I’d like you to. I’d like to hear it.”

That does it. Taron’s orgasm sweeps over him with a smooth, bright kind of pleasure that leaves him gasping, head falling back against the sofa as he moans. It’s so good, he can’t stop the little thrusts and jerks of his hips even as he comes down from it. “Colin…” he smiles as he says the other man’s name, holding himself through the last faint pulses.

“ _Oh_ —” It’s so abrupt, it almost startles Taron, and then he’s marvelling at Colin’s short, harshly drawn breaths and the choked sort of shudder he can just barely hear if he strains. Then it’s quiet, and he wonders if perhaps Colin’s held the phone away, or even dropped it? The silence stretches almost too long, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry, I needed a moment.” Colin sounds shaken but pleased.

Taron nods with urgency, which of course Colin can’t see. “Yes. No, yeah. It’s okay.”

“Well.”

“I…” Taron opts for transparency. “I’m very happy right now.”

“That makes two of us.”

Taron sits with that for a moment. That’s good. Of course—

“And before you even begin to worry… listen, just. Don’t.” Taron opens his mouth to protest, but Colin cuts him off. “I insist. I’m genuinely delighted, that was beyond anything I expected from, well, alright, _life_ , if I’m honest. And neither of us should ruin it by worrying about it.”

“I… can’t argue with that.” Taron blinks. “Thank you.” 

“My pleasure.” 

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and then Taron starts to chuckle. 

“And what, pray tell, is so amusing?”

“I just thought about how excited I’ve been to film the third movie next year. And how this is going to complicate that a bit. Not in a bad way!” he adds, hurriedly. “A good way. Not worried, honestly.”

“Nor am I. Although I’m very curious what happens next.”

Taron considers. “Me too, I guess. I’d like to call you again.” He’s getting sleepy. And he’s a mess, of course, a fact which he’s ignoring. On the television, everyone is reuniting, and if the volume weren’t turned down the Beach Boys would be playing.

“I’d be miserable if you didn’t.” There’s a teasing note to Colin’s voice, but he’s also obviously telling the truth. 

“It would be my pleasure to call you, whenever you like.” 

“Whenever?”

“Whenever it’s good for you.” 

“Alright, I’ll take you at your word.”

Taron senses a challenge and can’t help but rise to meet it. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“Oh God, I don’t think you could if you tried.” Colin’s voice is soft then, intimate. “This evening has been astonishing. ‘Pleasant surprise’ doesn’t begin to cover it. I—” He pauses. “I’d better go before I say something stupid, I suppose. Good night, Taron.”

“Good night, Colin. Talk soon.” A soft beep informs him that the call has ended.

Well. 

Taron stares at the flickering television screen for a moment, still holding the phone to his ear, other hand still down his trousers. He can’t help but laugh quietly in disbelief. This is likely not the type of scenario that Richard Curtis had in mind, but the sentiment still applies. 

“Thanks, ITV,” he half whispers to the quiet room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, indeed!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed what could ultimately be interpreted as a lengthy and persuasive commercial for Aviation Gin.
> 
> Coming up: An annual chat with the quartermaster, and some time with family.
> 
> Thanks for reading, see you tomorrow!
> 
> S & C xx


	5. Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is Tina up for a chat? Can you tell her there’s a Mark Strong on the phone for her?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hiiiii everyone!
> 
> Coming at you with a rather cute one today. Here's **[our song of the day](https://open.spotify.com/track/0EwuAHdON2ma8UBa7Flpee?si=558x9BWdQPSsHS6yPEuqLw)**. Cheeky, yes. ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

When Mam and the girls get to London, it’s snowing. 

Taron’s nursing a gin hangover, and he’s moderately annoyed about it. The snow. He’d planned a full day out, a stroll through Hyde Park, Winter Wonderl— _ah, no, not this year, of course_ , he keeps reminding himself, rather bitterly—but yes to Piccadilly and the angels of Regent Street and Hamley’s and the lights display in Carnaby, just soaking in the holiday spirit in only moderately crowded streets, for once. Which never usually happens, in December. A _normal_ December, that is. Which this one isn’t, not one bit.

Snow in London means traffic, he’s explaining to Tina, with a worried frown on his face. She's looking at him from the kitchen stool she’s sitting on, a slightly bewildered look on her face, while he boils some water for a brew. 

"Snow in London is bad news, Mam. Snow in London is _chaos_."

“Oh, don’t be a Grinch, Taron,” she says, scoffing. “You know how much the girls love snow. And you used to be like that too, by the way. Has the big city hardened you, my sweet boy?” she asks, raising an eyebrow and giving him a half smile.

Taron shakes his head and cringes, just the tiniest bit. “You know it hasn’t. Just a bit anxious, is all. It’s, you know—” he gestures around himself, trying to make a point, “everything, lately.”

“I know, baby. It’s going to be fine, though, eh? We’re going to have a great time. Wait till you see the masks I made for us.”

Taron rolls his eyes but still smiles fondly at his mam. “Don’t tell me. There’s fairy lights on them, and they all match?”

Tina grins and lets out a small chuckle, and Taron knows he’s right.

Since, despite Tina’s romanticising of cold semi-solidified water falling from the sky, it really is snowing quite hard, they decide to postpone their outing and stay at the flat a bit longer. They have tea, mince pies and chocolate biscuits for lunch, because it’s Christmas, and somehow they get to talking about the future. What’s in store for Taron in 2021, when everything calms down.

Tina knows about the _Tetris_ movie. (And now the whole world does too, thanks to the impromptu costume fitting he did yesterday. Statement 'stache and wig and that _vest_ , gods, he thought it might make Instagram implode and he was absolutely right.) But, by the way she’s looking at him as she sips on her second cuppa, Taron knows exactly what she’s implying when she’s asking after Taron’s filming schedule: she—along with probably millions of other people, to be fair—is wondering about _Kingsman_ 3.

He feels himself going red in the face for a second, the memory of last night still fresh and vivid in his mind. He knows exactly what he’s looking forward to, whenever Vaughn calls him up again. Tina, however...

“Oh my god, Mam.”

“What?” Tina asks, feigning innocence and plucking another biscuit from the plate in front of her.

“You’re the _least_ subtle person ever. I haven’t forgotten, you know.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she insists, but she’s blushing, of course she is, and he knows he’s right.

“About your yearly phone call? With your favourite actor?”

“Oh nonsense, my love— _you’re_ my favourite actor.”

Taron scoffs. “That’s very cute, Mam. Oh and hey, speak of the devil,” he says, feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, “Timing’s about right. I think this might be him.” He fishes it out, glances at the screen, and grins at the name flashing at him.

“Well hello, good sir, how are things on this fine Saturday morning?” he asks, as he puts the phone on speaker.

“Taron, mate, this bloody snow!” Mark Strong’s light cockney accent greets him from the end of the line. “But other than that, great. So glad we’re doing this today, missed talking to you.”

He’s looking at Tina, whose cheeks have just gone a few shades redder. “And I you. Lots to catch up on.”

“Absolutely. But first, I must ask: how’s my favourite member of your family doing?”

Tina shakes her head almost incredulously, as if this weren’t something that happens every year since Mark has learnt that she’s got a massive crush on him. Taron smirks and leans over the kitchen island, phone in his hand, keeping eye contact with Tina as he talks into the mic.

“Doing really well, mate. _Really_ well.”

“Is she up for a chat? Can you tell her there’s a Mark Strong on the phone for her?”

Tina rolls her eyes, shaking her head even as she speaks. “Hello, Mark!”

“Ah, Tina! There you are, love. Got a minute to talk? Get us off speaker, I don’t want that boy of yours eavesdropping.” 

Taron widens his eyes in mock offense for his mam’s benefit. She snatches his phone away and retreats to the sitting room to talk about God knows what with Mark. Probably holiday plans, Taron’s well-being, the state of the world… Hmm.

“What d’you think they’re chatting about?” he muses, not really expecting an answer.

Rosie arches an eyebrow. “She’s in love with him? Seems pretty obvious.” 

Taron regards her with mild horror for a moment. “Oh my goodness, stop it! Here, take this.” He pushes another chocolate biscuit across the counter to her, which she accepts with a nod of thanks. Then, he grabs the kitchen scissors and a piece of scratch paper and busies himself by showing the girls again how to cut out an eight-pointed snowflake, something they’ve been working on over zoom for a few weeks now. 

By the time Tina returns, Mari’s managed to hack out a fairly passable flake with a hole in the center and some lovely little points. She holds it out in front of her with a smug grin on her face.

“Oh my, well done sweetie!” she exclaims, covering the mic with one hand and mouthing _he wants to talk to you_ to Taron. “Well, Mark, it was a pleasure as usual. Happy Christmas, dear.”

“And to you, love,” Taron hears him mutter at the end of the line, as the phone is already in his hand. Tina looks smitten, and Taron suspects it’s got nothing to do with paper snowflakes.

“You done hitting on my mum, you dirty, dirty man?” Taron says jokingly, as he steps out of the kitchen, out of earshot of Tina and the girls. “She’s married, you know.”

“Hey, mate, I’m not jealous,” Mark replies, nonchalantly as ever. “And she’s a catch.”

“Aaaaand that’s the end of that, I reckon,” Taron says, hurriedly and in a sing-song voice. “I swear. Anyways, what’s up with you, eh? What’s new?”

“Not much. Same old, same old. Still not done filming, it’s going great despite… Well, despite everything, you know—”

“Yeah,” Taron interrupts, sighing, perhaps a touch too dramatically. “I know. I’m glad it’s going well. Those shots you put on the ‘gram look wicked.”

Mark laughs. “Why, thank you, Taron. Tell that to my wife—she says my Instagram feed is one of the most boring ones out there.”

“Absolutely unbelievable,” Taron says, fake-scandalised. “The nerve on that woman.”

“Can’t really say she’s wrong, to be honest. Nothing exciting going on there.” He pauses for a beat, then inhales sharply and raises his voice a tad. “Speaking of actually exciting things, however, you’ll never guess who I’ve heard from the other day.”

“Oh don’t tell me, don’t tell me. Is it Guy Ritchie? Does he have another gruff-but-lovable main role for you? Aren’t you getting a bit too old for those?”

“It’s a hard no—on all three of those, you cheeky git,” Mark replies, audibly trying to sound tough but also unable to hide the mirth in his voice. “No, it’s Colin. Colin Firth.”

_As if there were a thousand Colins in the pool of our mutual acquaintances. Of course it’s that one. Thanks, Mark._

“Oh yeah?” Taron says, getting up from his chair and strolling to his balcony door, in a desperate attempt to fight the rush of memories of last night flooding back in. He bites the end of his pinky finger for a second, then he asks, “Is he well?”

“He seemed a bit… I don’t know, lonely?” Mark sounds uncertain. “First Christmas without Livia, you know.”

“Yeah,” Taron says, because he can’t think of anything else. That hadn’t occurred to him, but of course he knows Mark’s right. He also knows a tad more than that, which he’ll be keeping to himself.

“Yeah. Give ‘im a ring too, maybe, eh?”

“Will do.”

“Good man. We need him in top form for next year.”

“Definitely,” Taron agrees, and then does a mental double-take. “Wait, what? Are you back too, then?” he asks, incredulous. Last he knew, Merlin was a goner.

“Oh, listen, I dunno. They made me sign something, a couple months back. Pretty sure it’s just for flashbacks, but…”

“Never know,” Taron butts in, suddenly hopeful. “Wouldn’t be the first time Matthew pulled a Lazarus on a fan favourite.”

They chat for a little while longer, entertaining crazy theories about Merlin having secretly escaped and lived in the jungle for months, of Eggsy divorcing the princess three weeks into the marriage, and Elton taking on a proper supporting role in the next movie.

What snaps Taron out of his little movie star bubble are the excited cries of glee from his two baby sisters, proclaiming out loud that it’s not snowing anymore, and that they’re finally going out to get toys and hot chocolate, and would Taron hurry up already.

“Gonna have to go, sorry mate. Always lovely talking to you.”

“Right back at you. Happy Christmas, Taron.”

“Happy Christmas, Mark.”

“And Taron?”

“Yeah?”

“Behave.”

“You know me. I always do.”

“Chance would be a fine thing. Bye, Taron.”

“Bye, Mark. See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: Taron cheers his ~~boyfriend~~ up, and makes him love Christmas again. (Features mixed media.)
> 
> We hope you're loving this as much as we are!
> 
> See you tomorrow, peeps,
> 
> S and C x


	6. Edvin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trolls don't need pants, babe. 
> 
> Today's song is right here, over [**yonder**](https://open.spotify.com/track/49DUrD1pnVK4Mvmc8L3Aua?si=o9oKzy_DS9yukeBxPHfCbQ). 
> 
> This is a multimedia chapter- hope the formatting works! It may be most enjoyable on a mobile device.

Taron opens Instagram on December 6 and he’s greeted by a familiar face. One that he hasn’t seen in a while.

Edvin Endre, his little blond Swedish friend, his very own Matti Nykänen, the Snufkin to his Moomintroll, looks gorgeous and miserable in his latest selfie, that is captioned “Day 6 of Christmas celebrations. Im broken on the inside.”

Taron shakes his head and taps on his profile to send him a DM.

So Taron sets about doing a photo shoot with Nelly. She’s napping on the couch, a little low energy but cute, peaceful. He can work with this, he thinks. 

He sends a shot. No response. Damn, they’ll need to up their game. He scratches gently behind her ears and she huffs herself awake to look at him.

“Sorry girl, but this is important. We’re saving a Swedish boy’s sanity.” Nelly tilts her head questioningly. Taron sighs. “You just have to look adorable.” She blinks. “I know, your work is never done.”

For the next fifteen minutes or so, Taron cajoles, entreats, and manipulates the shaggy little dog into as many cute poses as he can come up with. After three photos, Edvin finally rewards him with a heart. When Nelly flips on her back and puts her paws up like a little show dog, Taron rubs her belly, snaps a pic, and then rewards Nelly with half a biscuit when they get a !! from Edvin.

Nelly laying on a pillow, wearing Taron’s sunglasses and looking at a magazine finally earns them a laugh reaction. 

“Yes! Good girl, we’ve done it.” Nelly looks surprised, but accepts a kiss on the head and then settles in to nap some more. 

Taron laughs. Typical Edvin, deadpan to a fault. It makes it even more fun to shake him up a bit.

There, that ought to get a bigger reaction. A few moments later, Edvin’s reply has him giggling with delight as Nelly cocks a doubtful eyebrow at him from the couch.

They continue to message back a forth a bit while Taron fixes lunch, and Edvin sends a selfie of himself cocking a deadpan, triumphant eyebrow while placing the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle, a cluster of very blond people smiling and laughing in the background. 

Taron sends back a selfie of himself taking an enormous bite of the sandwich he’s built, which receives a thumbs up a while later.

About an hour later, while he’s settled down reading a novel, Taron hears his phone buzz. The image Edvin’s sent him actually makes him almost tear up a bit, sentimental git that he is. It’s fan art, incredibly sweet Christmas fan art.

Taron’s not sure what to say, so he hearts it and smiles, and turns back to his book. He doesn’t want to gloat or anything. He can’t actually take credit for turning Edvin’s entire holiday around, can he? Surely not.

Hours later as he’s getting ready for bed, he checks his DMs again and laughs so loudly that it startles Nelly at her spot near the end of the bed.

"Sorry girl, sorry!" He beckons her up by him and lets her snuggle in by way of apology, as he crawls under the duvet. “It’s funny though. You wouldn’t get it, but it’s very funny. The Swede is funny.” 

He notices she’s got something in her mouth, and starts giggling again. “Oh, my, my. Good girl, this is perfect.” He clutches her closer, flips his camera to selfie mode, and snaps a shot of himself, Nelly, and the Snufkin plushie she’s been gnawing on, and sends it to Edvin.

_Good night, Snufkin. We <3 you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [Nelly's Snufkin plush](https://www.amazon.com/Moomin-Snufkin-Twilight-Palm-Size/dp/B00F5J2NTC). And here's [the GIF Edvin sends Taron at the very end](https://64.media.tumblr.com/3ed728360157960bc084dc0998c79e77/0e46e053f3073d40-fb/s500x750/4240e946170be94e6c5b32e9624b9d6b56c96371.gifv). Warning, it flashes a bit.  
> And finally, here's [the tumblr of the artist who made that beautiful Moomintroll fan art.](https://avril-circus.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Coming up: Taron gets an offer he can't refuse from an OBE.


	7. Gary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On November 27, Taron got an email from Elton. The subject stated “New music for you”, and the body of the message simply contained a Spotify link, a single sentence, _I’m having him write your next musical_ , and three kisses. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO  
> We're so excited to be posting this one. It features a couple of headcanons of ours (literally stuff we've been talking about for MONTHS and that may or may not end up in a potential spinoff fic (👀) and it's extremely topical, following last night's Barlow extravaganza on telly. Thanks, Gary, for always keeping us entertained.  
> The song of the day is, of course, [**this one**](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Y2s7nXKNBXv1OIIgNeQdl?si=lsryPN-iQROrHg3imZhw6w).  
> We hope you'll enjoy this clash of star signs. See you on the other side ;)

On November 27, Taron got an email from Elton. The subject stated “New music for you”, and the body of the message simply contained a Spotify link, a single sentence, _I’m having him write your next musical_ , and three kisses. 

When Taron clicked on the link, he landed on Gary Barlow’s new album, _Music Played by Humans_. Halfway through track 1 (what he’d effectively label an opening number), he found himself wishing he was a proper stage actor, and that he could pull off playing the lead in whatever Gary Barlow will write next. He replied to Elton, _I’m in, let’s do it_ , and proceeded to order the vinyl (red, limited edition, _signed_ ) for his collection.

Two weeks later, halfway through a rather sad breakfast—foggy, miserable day, half-assed protein porridge, a way-too-ripe banana, and a decaf brew, because he’s out of his usual Yorkshire Gold, fuck—he’s listening to Magic, and they put Gary’s single on. And that, hearing that one three-minute song that belongs on a stage in the West End or on Broadway, somehow completely turns his day around. He watched a bit of Gary’s ITV special only last night and marvelled at how the singer managed to generate his own momentum and energy, and it feels like that energy is back now, right in Taron’s kitchen.

He puts on the album again, so grateful for the boost. On his phone speakers, first, bopping around the kitchen to Gary and Michael Bublé’s extremely accomplished attempt at a latin beat, and then on his fancy stereo, busting out the red vinyl and the big boy Sony system he got for his new big boy flat. He picks up Nelly, and dances with her to _The Big Bass Drum_. He doesn’t remember ever seeing his little dog less impressed.

Then, after a ballad and another belter, a song he faintly recalls chuckling at upon first listen, but that he hadn’t actually paid that much attention to, weeks ago. The song is called _Bad Libran_ , and it seems to be all about love and astrology. It’s snappy and whimsical, with mighty clever lyrics and a catchy melody, and Taron can’t get enough of it. When it’s over, he puts it on again. And again. And again.

By the fourth listen, his phone is out, and he’s writing a text to Gary Barlow.

_Didn’t take you for an astrology nerd. You’re full of surprises, Mr. B._

After staring at his phone for five full minutes, no reply in sight, Taron finally acquiesces to Nelly’s demand for walkies and gets out in the chilly London morning. He sticks on a podcast, gets 5k steps under his belt for the day, and doesn’t look at messages for a full 40 minutes.

When he gets back, he’s frozen, but he still grins like a fool when he glances down at his phone in his hands and sees he’s got a few texts back from Gary. 

**_Hey, lovely to hear from you kid. What are you on about?_ **

**_Oh, bugger, I got it now. Sorry, mate. I’m almost 50, you know. Slow._ **

**_Glad you like the song. You’ll never guess who got me into astrology in the first place._ **

Taron chuckles as he types, _Is it Robbie_

**_Can’t confirm nor deny_ **

_LOL of course ;)_

A thought occurs to him: he’s never actually told Gary how much he loves the album. Something like this deserves a bit of theatrics, so he takes a rather awkward selfie with the vinyl—a funny one, he hopes, where he’s holding the thing to his right and looking down longingly at Gary on the cover. He checks it’s alright, slaps on a filter, adjusts saturation, overthinks the whole thing just the tiniest bit, then sends it out to the man himself.

_Btw I meant to say: this bad boy sounds fantastic. Bloody well done, mate._

_Although I’m not sure about ‘Incredible Christmas’…_ he adds, on a second thought, because he truly can’t comprehend the thought process behind the song, and he dear God hopes Gary will take the bait.

Sure enough, ten seconds later, his phone starts ringing. Wow, straight to FaceTime and everything. Taron runs a hand through his hair, turns down the stereo—it’s _Before We Get Too Old_ playing now, a funny ballad that makes him think of an old Cole Porter song—and picks up the call.

“Hello?”

“Oi, kid,” Gary greets him, looking stern and upset but not really sounding like it, “what’s wrong with me Christmas song?” 

Taron feels himself turn beet red and lets out a loud chuckle. “Nothing,” he lies. “It’s… it’s great, Gaz. Truly.” He bites his lip to try and stop himself from smiling too much. 

Gary raises an eyebrow, adjusts his specs, then gives him a half smile and an eyeroll.

“Don’t bother, y’ little brat,” he replies, no real venom in his voice. “I _know_ it’s terrible. It was… Oh, d’you know what?” he says, setting down his phone so it still frames him and frees his hands, and producing a mug of tea from somewhere near him and taking a sip. The mug has Mr. Grumpy on it. Taron remembers it was a thing on Gary’s Twitter for a while, what feels like ages ago. “You should ask Robbie, whenever you get ‘im on the phone. I’ll let him explain.”

Taron is intrigued. He wants to press for more, but he bites his tongue instead.

“This is all very mysterious, I must admit. I will be asking Robbie,” he says, trying not to look too amused by the whole conversation. “But hey, Gaz: if it helps at all, I really loved your performance of it on Corden, last week…”

“Give an old man a break, eh, Taron?” Gary cuts him off, shaking his head in exasperation. Gary knows, Taron can tell. He _absolutely_ knows how bad the song is. And it’s kind of hilarious. Teasing Gary is funny, but maybe Taron should have just gone down the praise avenue. After all, the man absolutely smashed it on telly yesterday night.

“Alright, alright. But hey, seriously: I _love_ the record. A ridiculous amount. Proper big band stuff. The show last night too, really ace.”

Gary’s expression softens. “Aw, thanks, T. Yeah, the show was proper good fun, got me and a few mates out of the house. And the album… Right word you used there, ‘big’. _Sixty people at Abbey Road_ big, mate. Time of my bloody life.” Gary looks fond, bless him. “Sorry I didn’t get to send you PR—a little bird told me you were too quick and had spent your hard-earned _Rocketman_ Benjamins on it already.”

“Does the little bird exclusively wear Gucci and lives in a mansion in Windsor?”

“Maybe,” Gary replies, with a wink. Then, he moves his glasses down his nose a bit and squints in a rather adorable way. “Is that a Sony turntable I see? What’s the best album of 2020 spinning on, now, eh?”

Taron blushes again. He knows how much of a geek Gary is for hardware. He invested a lot of money in his stereo set-up, when he bought this place, but he still feels that it’ll look somewhat inadequate. Which it probably won’t, to be fair. But. You know. He’s a worrier. And the stakes are suddenly _high_.

“Erm, Gaz, I don’t think...”

“Oh go on mate, show us your set-up,” Gary insists, a benevolent smile on his face. “You know it’s my stuff.”

“Fine, fine,” Taron says, flipping the camera around and framing the turntable and speakers.

Gary emits a series of impressed noises, and has nothing but good things to say about what he’s seeing. The only reservation he seems to have concerns Taron’s equaliser settings.

“I think it can sound even better if you just turn a coupla knobs, there, man. Trust me.”

Taron ponders faking extensive knowledge in the matter—for exactly three seconds, before flat-out admitting that he has no bloody idea what to do. That makes Gary chuckle in earnest.

“Oh don’t worry, I can help! Show me again, I’ll tell you what to do.”

Two minutes later, they’re all done. And Taron’s absolutely mind-blown with the result.

“Fuck, you’re right: it does sound better. Thanks, Gaz, I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it, mate. You did a lovely job.” 

That, for some reason, sends a few shivers down Taron’s spine. He doesn’t feel like psychoanalysing himself during a phone call with one of Britain’s national treasures, but he sure does stash that one away for safekeeping and a full-on dissection at some point in the near future. Maybe he’ll text Charlie about it.

“Hey, Gaz?” he asks, after a brief, comfortable silence.

“Yes, mate. Tell me.”

“I’ve been wondering… I know it’s late and all, but it’s not impossible to start learning how to play the piano at 31, is it?”

Gary’s entire face lights up. It appears that he, like Taron, is very easily pleased.

“Absolutely not. You just need a piano, and a lot of patience.”

“Thought so. I may have been looking at options online.”

“Oh, goody,” Gary says, with a big smile on his face and actually rubbing his hands together. “Just brilliant, mate. Hey, if you need a consultation, feel free to shoot those web pages my way. I can help you weed out the rubbish ones, no problem.”

“Oh, gosh,” Taron replies, beaming in turn. “If that’s not too much to ask? Will you? I have absolutely no clue about any of this. As you could probably tell, earlier, with the knobs.”

“Nonsense, T. I suspect there’s a natural, hidden in there somewhere. The talent’s there, anyways, I think everyone’s seen that by now. You just need practice and good advice. And I can definitely help you with one of those.”

“Th—”

“Actually, what the fuck,” Gary interrupts him, looking like he’s just had a brilliant idea. “Where are you, right now? As in, where do you live? You back in Wales for the time being?”

“Actually, I’ve just moved back to London. I’m…” _in a posh flat in the old BBC Television Centre_ , “near White City.”

“Mate! That’s only a 15 minute drive from here!” Gary exclaims, excitedly. “I’ve got fuck all to do until the tour stuff kicks off, and that ain’t happening for a good while. Until the boys come knocking next year—and I guarantee that won’t be until Feb/March at least, because Mr. Mark Owen has to “ _ease_ into 2021”, the lazy bastard—I’m free as a bird. I could give you some lessons, if you’re up for it.”

Taron is dumbfounded for a second. _Gary Barlow_ , giving him _piano lessons_? This must be one of those showbiz fever dreams he sometimes has. This is Hugh feeding him mille feuille all over again. What the hell is his life?

He realises he’s been silently gaping at the screen for a while, eyes wide and a bemused smile on his face, only once Gary prompts him again. “Well? What do you say? I’d better warn ya, I’ve been told I’m a right pain in the arse.”

Taron smiles and shakes it off. Piano lessons with Gary Barlow. Fuck it. Yes, please.

“Bring it on, Mister,” he says, a tad defiantly, but it’s gratitude he’s really feeling, so he quickly rectifies. “Gaz, this is too generous. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll have a cup of builder’s—milk, no sugar—and a few healthy snacks out for me when I come by, and you’ll make me a happy man,” Gary says, winking again. “No, but seriously: I’ve got too many kids at home, and I’m bored out of my skull. I think Mrs. B might have had enough of me— _again_. This’ll be good for both of us, really.”

“Looking forward to it, then,” Taron replies, smiling.

“I’ll hit you up in a few weeks to fix a date in Jan, if it’s alright with you. I’m still neck deep in album promo, right now. If one can even call it that. Sitting in front of my bloody computer all day every day talking to people, more like.”

“Still, busy busy times, I get it. No problem, Gaz. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

“Brilliant. You’re a good egg, Taron. We’re going to have some fun together, you and I.”

_Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together._

“Promise you’ll go easy on me?”

Gary scratches his beard and gives him another fake-steely look. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

The call ends after a round of goodbyes and the promise to immediately get on their respective PCs to look at pianos together. Therefore, Taron makes some tea, gets Nelly on his lap, and fires up his MacBook.

When the stereo goes silent, Taron puts the record back on. By the end of the second listen, he’s sent Gary approximately twenty links.

Three hours later, Gary has already come back to him with a list of options. They’re sorted by price range, and each one contains pros, cons, value for money, specs, and whether Gary “knows a guy” who could potentially “hook them up with a sweet discount”, because over the years he “spent way too much money” in their shop.

Taron thanks him and tells him he’ll sleep on it. And then, when the night comes, he quite literally does.

He dreams of a baby grand in the middle of his living room. It’s white, and it’s beautiful, and he can play it perfectly. He sits down on the stool, and starts on some complicated song. He vaguely recognises it as one of Elton’s, possibly from _Madman_ , perhaps _Indian Sunset_. 

In the dream, Gary’s watching him while he plays. He can actually feel the attention, feel Gary’s eyes on him. Gary’s hand on his shoulder. Gary’s hand on his, correcting his positioning just the slightest bit.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, and he can’t stop thinking about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piano lessons babyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy 🎹🎹🎹  
> In case you were curious, this is [**the terrible Christmas song**](https://open.spotify.com/track/6XyNCLxIOHzPfLaxALIV3C?si=y04kbhk8SOqRqXmeMxAFkA). Just so bad. But keep your eyes peeled, there's a reason why it's so bad...  
> This whole shebang was definitely inspired by [**this whole thing**](https://applesfallingfromblondehair.tumblr.com/post/634479547721629697/remember-this-kids) that happened sometime last summer. Fingers crossed that we get to see (hear) this soon.  
> Gary is a favourite of ours, can you tell?
> 
> Anyways. Onto new adventures, eh?
> 
> Coming up: Taron bends the knee to the King in the North. 🐺
> 
> We love you, stick around!
> 
> S and C xx


	8. Kit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you done flirting with my wife.”  
> “You started this, mate. And you have to stop teasing her, by the way: I’m confirmed by several magazines to be irresistible. It isn’t her fault, and she deserves sympathy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe not the King in the North you were hoping for... 
> 
> The song of the day is [**over here**](https://open.spotify.com/track/1lLa9hW0l2pjTzwmhtRCI8?si=8djkFzoNR6i9gepREcGBmA). #goodvibesonly, baby ❤
> 
> Enjoy!

At 8:34 PM on a Tuesday, while he’s doing the dishes and listening to _Lady Stardust_ , Taron’s phone buzzes on the countertop. He glances at the lit-up screen and sees that, out of the goddamn blue, he seems to have just gotten a text from Kit Harington. 

As one does. You know. Sure.

He shakes his head in mild disbelief, having to think very hard about the Globe statuette in his living room to remember that this thing, these showbiz friendships, are now a legit part of his everyday life. Those, as well as the £3M bachelor pad he splashed on less than a year ago, of course. That’s normal, all of it. 

Doesn’t _feel_ normal, though. To get a text from Jon Snow on a Tuesday night in early December. Especially since they haven’t talked since the night that Taron actually won the aforementioned shiny thing that lives on his mantle. But whatever.

He dries his hands on a tea towel, picks up his phone, gives it a stupid smile to unlock it, and reads Kit’s text.

**_Just got home to Rose watching Rocketman for the third time in five days. I think she’s a bit obsessed. With the movie, the songs, or your pretty face, I’m not quite sure. Maybe a bit of everything._ **

**_Anyways, I teased her about having a crush on you, then remembered we haven’t talked in months. How are you?_ **

Taron’s smile is genuine now. He can picture it quite well—Rose Leslie, six months pregnant and barely showing, happily bopping to the songs that changed Taron’s life. 

_Mate, that’s so lovely to hear. So happy to hear from you, too._

_Say hi to the wife from me, too—tell her she can do better than little old me. She already has, actually ;)_

**_Oh, nonsense. But hey, want to say hi yourself? You busy? I think she can press pause on you and Rich smooching for five minutes. She’ll be back at it soon enough, anyways._ **

After reading that, Taron doesn’t react the way he would have reacted ten months ago. 

Ten months ago, it would have gone one of two ways: hollow grief, or frustratingly ugly anger. Maybe rage, if he’s being honest. Ten months ago, he would have ignored Kit’s kind request for a friendly catch-up, and focused solely on that one part of his text, the one about—

But no, not anymore. Something that this god-forsaken year of our Lord 2020 seems to have brought to Taron Egerton—apart from constant dread, anxiety, and appreciation for little nuggets of happiness such as receiving coffee from Hugh Jackman on the reg—is clarity and peace of mind about the end of his last relationship-that-wasn’t-even-a-proper-relationship (depending on which party you asked). 

He won’t be tossing his phone too hard against the counter. He won’t pick up that tub of Häagen-Dazs in his freezer, sit on the couch, and potentially cry in front of a random Cameron Diaz movie from the Nineties. No. He will pick up the phone and call Kit goddamn Harington, avoid the subject if it comes up, and act as if everything’s fine. Like the professional he is.

(It is, by the way. Fine. It’s _fine_. He doesn’t think about it. Hadn’t thought about it in at least a month. That’s good, right?)

“Good evening, Taron,” Kit’s soft voice greets him as soon as the call connects.

“‘Ello mate,” Taron replies, grinning. “How’s things? Apart from the wife’s obsession with me, I mean. In which I don’t believe for one second, by the way.”

“Oh, but you should. When she’s not sitting in front of you on the telly, she’s listening to Elton songs on Spotify—on the big speakers. And not the originals, your versions.”

“Oh dear,” Taron sighs, then he chuckles, thanking the heavens he’s not on camera and that Kit Harington isn’t aware of how red his face is, right now. “What can I say, man: she’s got good taste.”

Kit laughs wholeheartedly. “Indeed she does. Wait till she hears I’ve got you on the phone: she’s going to lose her mind.”

What follows are five-odd minutes of light-hearted banter, the usual chatter about coping with a global pandemic, baking, keeping fit, and having the occasional manly cry about the state of the world. Kit gets it. All of it. Kit is a modern man. Kit seems to not have an ounce of toxic masculinity to his name. It’s both refreshing and infuriating, really: not many celebrities have a public image that perfectly mirrors how they really are as people—but Kit, like Colin and very few other men Taron has come across during his years in the spotlight, definitely seems to be one of them.

Then, because Taron is a man of his word and he quite literally lives to please, he asks Kit to put his wife on to say hello. Kit obliges, walking into the living room to an apparently sniffling Rose, muffled voices in the background that Taron faintly recognises as the scene in the rehab clinic from the end of _Rocketman_ , then one where Elton tells Bernie he’s always needed him, John Reid to fuck off, and his younger self that he’s always deserved to be loved.

“Babe, someone on the phone for you,” Kit says, softly. Taron hears the grin in his voice and pictures it, too. Dazzling. Then again, he supposes Rose might be used to it, by now.

“Tell them to bugger off, I can’t talk to anyone right now,” she says, her voice wet with tears and a tad exasperated. “I’ll call them back once it’s over.”

“You’re _really_ going to want to take this, Rose,” Kit insists, and now Taron hears him very faintly, as if the mic was being covered. “Seriously.”

A brief silence follows, that Taron can only imagine being filled by a lot of glaring from a heavily pregnant woman to her loving husband. Then, Rose begrudgingly consents, blows her nose, and picks up the phone.

“Hello?” she says, audibly trying to sound chipper, despite her obviously blocked nose. “Who is this?”

“It’s Taron, love, hi,” he replies, biting his lip coyly and leaning on the counter with his free arm wrapped around his middle, feeling a bit like a schoolboy talking to his crush. Even if it’s the other way round. But, you know, technicalities.

“Taron,” she says, flatly at first. Then, she inhales sharply and considerably raises her voice. “Oh my God, _Taron_! Hi! How are you!” she exclaims, stunned.

“I’m g—”

“Wait,” she interrupts fiercely. “Did my arsehole husband tell… Oh my God, Christopher. You didn’t call Taron to tell him about _this_.” Another pause, something muffled from Kit. Her hand on the speaker. A faint but very distinguishable _fuck you_ from Rose, and an _I love you_ from her husband. Taron grins, trying and failing not to long for a relationship of his own.

(He doesn’t want one. Not right now. Besides, all his emotional needs are currently fulfilled by a small, shaggy Portuguese girl with an underbite.)

Rose starts praising him, and he doesn’t get to space out. She talks about the movie, about Elton, about Jamie, about Cannes, about how good Taron’s singing is, and how his version of some of the songs tops even Elton’s original. 

She doesn’t talk about anyone else. All the compliments are for Taron.

He blushes again, thanks her profusely, and asks her how she’s feeling with the pregnancy.

“Oh, everything’s _perfect_ ,” she says, in that boarding-school-acquire posh accent that renders her Aberdeenshire origins completely unbelievable.

They talk about babies for a while—a short while, but enough to tickle Taron’s fatherly instinct—before she says goodnight and passes the phone back to Kit.

“Are you done flirting with my wife.”

“You started this, mate. And you have to stop teasing her, by the way: I’m confirmed by several magazines to be irresistible. It isn’t her fault, and she deserves sympathy.” 

In response, Kit laughs that singing, endearing laugh of his, before acquiescing. “I suppose that is the general consensus, innit?”

“Yeah, man. Sorry, you’re old news. _So_ 2015, really.” He pauses for a sec, picturing Kit shaking his head. “But hey, tell me now: how are you? How’s it going, preparing for the baby and all?”

“Honestly? It’s going so well. Extra smooth, so far. I’m not even staying up at night thinking about it—which I probably would have, like, two years ago. But I’m not scared, not even a little bit. Maybe that’ll change once the baby gets here, but… Yeah, very good.” 

Taron can sense the sincerity of his words, and it warms his heart. The man’s about to have his first child, and it sounds like he’s not overthinking it one bit. If Taron was in his place, he’d have to set a ridiculous monthly budget for CBD gummies in order to cope with the immense looming responsibility of having to take care of a brand new fun-sized human. What a charmed life the Harington-Leslie household must live.

“I’m mostly just out of my mind excited to meet her, now,” Kit continues, fondly.

“ _Her_? Didn’t even think to ask Rose if you knew the sex! A baby girl for you to spoil, that’s perfect.”

“I know, right? But I told Rose—no ridiculous frills. And the nursery is fifty shades of beige and pastels.”

“Ooh, like, Scandinavian style?”

“Exactly.”

“What a tasteful choice. You’ll be a fuckin’ amazing dad, mate.” And Taron means that, too. Completely and utterly. Yet another man in his life who grew up surrounded by strong women, and who turned out an absolute charm.

 _Better keep that in mind_ , he guesses. He always needs role models.

After they hang up, Taron sits in silence for a while. He thinks of many things at once—Kit, Rose, fatherhood, his _Rocketman_ glory days—but, weirdly, he doesn’t get overwhelmed. It’s the latter, usually, that does it. The memories, so far in the past, and yet so close to his heart still.

They will always be, he reasons. It’s a whole thing, the emotional weight of those weeks spent singing and trying to convince studios to bring Lee Hall and Dex’s vision to reality, those following months spent actually shooting, those _years_ of his life spent promoting it. The people he met thanks to it, this amazing, wonderful, bonkers project that shaped his career into something more concrete, more mature. The people who made him laugh, cry, and fall in love. 

The _people_ , plural, because it’s all a huge, joyous blur, these days: there’s no space for sad recollections, anymore. Water under the bridge, and all that. The first thing that comes to mind, when he thinks of the _Rocketman_ days, is the sheer elation he felt when Julian Day first presented him with that denim jacket with the colourful patches sewn all over it. The one that he still has in his closet, right now.

It’s so easy, then, to take it out of its protective slip, wear it once again, and snap a shot of himself in it. He looks nothing like the glam movie star who stepped into some oxblood red Docs and out onto a red carpet in NYC wearing it, sure, but he still feels the same in it. No, actually: he feels _better_. More mature, more independent. The man staring at him from his screen doesn’t need affirmation from the people who let him down. He’s not chasing after impossible alternate timelines, that are completely out of reach. In a word, he’s free.

He types out, _This is for Rose! I don’t have the glasses anymore, sadly. Hope you have a lovely time at Christmas. Love, T xx_ , and sends the photo to Kit.

He receives a string of blue lovehearts and rocket emojis back, grins at his phone, then pockets it. Enough crazy showbiz interactions for one day, he reckons.

However, almost absentmindedly, he keeps the jacket on. He strolls around the flat in it, chucking on the _Captain Fantastic_ vinyl and ultimately improvising his own version of _Someone Saved My Life Tonight_. He does this kind of thing so much, lately, that Nelly doesn’t even look at him like he’s crazy, anymore—which, one would argue, is progress.

The jacket always mattered a tad too much to him. That one scene. The literal _wild ride_ that followed, both for Elton and himself. First love. Well, the first one that really mattered, anyway.

He thought… He really believed it might make him miserable to ever wear it again, because of all that. He kept it hidden in his closet, for that specific reason. But tonight, he finally knows he doesn’t have to. He can just wear the damned thing, this patch-covered denim dream, and be nothing but fucking ecstatic about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. A bittersweet one, today.  
> That's why we haven't tagged this whole shebang as Madderton, it's very much about different relationships, time passing, loss and change and renewal. You know, 2020 themes we can all probably relate to. There are several reasons behind this creative choice; some are personal, some are (more or less) objective.
> 
> Coming up: Taron gets a message from an American number he doesn't know, and a Scotsman brightens his day.
> 
> See you tomorrow,
> 
> S and C xx


	9. Craig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Looking good bro_** 😉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all!
> 
> Today, Taron slides into someone's DMs. Our [**song of the day**](https://open.spotify.com/track/20I6sIOMTCkB6w7ryavxtO?si=TRy2y3kITJuh9Y5tMnUUWg) is this silly bit of pop from 2012, and it's an accurate representation of the level of interactions between these two. 😉

Taron wakes up on December 9 feeling well-rested, for once in his life. He glances at the clock, sees it’s 10:45, and figures that he’s slept for close to ten hours straight. Which explains it, really.

He’s in such a good mood that he doesn’t even think of looking at his phone. He wants to dwell in it, savour it for a bit. It happens so rarely these days.

He makes eggs, coffee, and fresh orange juice. He asks Alexa to play Gary’s album on the big speakers, and he gives Nelly her breakfast while singing the chorus of _Before We Get Too Old_.

But then, after this absolutely idyllic half an hour is done, he finally does it. He looks at his phone, and he finds a text notification from a number he doesn’t know. An American number, looks like. He thumbs it open.

There’s a picture, a giant teddy bear in the middle of a cobble street, scaringly similar to the one he sat in front of for an Instagram post last year, and a message attached to it.

**_Made me think of you. Hope you’re well. Merry Christmas. X_ **

He knows exactly who this is. The default reaction would be overthinking it—drafting a thousand different replies and mulling them over for at least an hour before replying, but this isn’t him anymore.

_Very cute. All good here, thanks, same for you I hope. Have a lovely time._

He immediately presses _send_ , then sets his phone down and checks in with himself. This is fine. This is absolutely fine, and he won’t be thinking about it anymore. His text doesn’t leave the door open for a reply, after all. It’s done, it’s—

The screen lights up again, and this time Taron can read the entire message directly, without opening it.

**_I miss you, T._ **

For a few seconds, he’s frozen. It all flashes before his eyes—the happiness, the fear, the love, the lies, the sex, the tears—and it hits him right where it hurts. And today he feels like he might do it, the thing he didn’t do yesterday when Kit texted him, the whole dramatic shebang of smashing his phone to pieces to destroy the evidence of that one text that is triggering him. 

So, he just walks out of the room, leaving the offending device on the coffee table, and gets into his bedroom. He’s got an emergency pack of cigarettes stashed in the drawer of his nightstand, and right now feels like the time to bust it out.

It’s cold as fuck on the balcony, thick fog so heavy and damp that it feels like light rain, enveloping the whole building like a cloud, but he doesn’t even wear a jacket. He’s never been a chainsmoker, but it does take two whole fags to calm him down this time round. 

He finds himself wishing that Colin would ask him to call. He doesn’t want to do it spontaneously, though. That’s a desperate move. He’s not desperate. Right?

When he walks back in, he’s frozen to the bone but a bit less panicky. He gets into a hot shower that lasts a few minutes too long and, as he dries his hair and inspects his face in the mirror, he gears up to a full day of feeling low and grumpy.

Lo and behold, however, the sight that greets him when he steps out of his ensuite turns his mood completely around. It’s Nelly, bless her little furry paws. It’s always Nelly, these days. She’s lying on the carpet, belly in the air, just patiently waiting to be scritched, and she’s holding her flamingo toy between her teeth. 

“Dear me, Nel. It’s like I’ve trained you to be extra cute. Or maybe you’ve trained me to take pictures of you.” He snaps a shot, throws on a filter that properly expresses the intensity with which he loves this sweet little dog, and posts it to his Instagram. 

Within twenty seconds, he gets a notification. Oh god, it must have reset when he updated the app, he’d better fix that before his phone goes up in flames with hundreds of notifications. Thumbing through, he sees the comment.

**_Seriously bro, I’d walk that dog any time you like_ **

Taron smiles. Craig comments pretty regularly but rarely messages him. They’ve only met a couple of times, but the man was nice enough to Taron on those occasions to earn an official invitation to one of the lavish Taron-Egerton-Turns-Thirty bashes that he threw last year. That party was crowded and filled with booze, and Taron was a bit distracted at the time, riding the high of several days of birthday celebration and a swirling cloud of friends and family surrounding him. Still, it’s hard to forget someone built like Craig McGinlay. He feels shamefully shallow for thinking that way, but it’s true. God, even his tiny little profile pic screams “rugged, windblown Scotsman about to scoop you up and carry you across a rocky Highlands stream”. And Taron doesn’t even watch _Outlander_ , for fuck’s sake. That’s just the strength of the vibe Craig puts out when he’s posing. 

In person of course, Craig’s just a polite, professional model/trainer/actor type, the sort of guy Taron’s met eight hundred of since entering show business. Maybe drops a few too many “bros” in conversation for Taron’s comfort as a sensitive drama school lad. He does seem very sweet though, earnest to a fault. The guileless sort of man who feels especially safe to talk to today, for reasons Taron refuses to dwell on.

So he sends Craig a DM. Why not. ‘Sliding in’, as the kids say.

_When can you make it to London then_

The dots. Christ, the _dots_. Taron’s blushing on Craig’s behalf. Is he drafting a novel? Taron goes to the kitchen and starts a kettle, peeking at the screen occasionally. Finally, Craig’s hit send. 

**_Oh hi Taron!_ **

Oh, God. Taron actually puts a hand to his own face to hide his smile, even though there’s only Nelly around to see it. Bless. It’s impossible to tell if Craig’s actually flustered, or just made out of sunshine and innocence, or flirting? Or “bro flirting” as Taron often thinks of it—that half-camp, half-macho dynamic that men in their 30’s often fall into on Instagram and Twitter. Instead of worrying about it, Taron just types.

_Hey :) How you doing mate?_

_Nelly is dying to meet you, seriously_

Whether Craig’s flirting or not, there’s no denying the social capital of a cute dog.

**_I’d love to meet her too! Love dogs, man. Idk how you have time with work_ **

The man has a point. Taron hasn’t really thought through how that’s going to work next year, especially when filming starts. Didn’t really feel important at the time, back in August. He finishes making his cup of tea, adds a splash of milk and carries it into the living room.

“No worries Nell, we’ll figure it out.” She trots after him and finds a spot on the couch with him, just as close to under his bum as she can get without actually getting squashed.

Taron turns the camera on them both, raising his mug and an eyebrow and making sure Nelly’s fuzzy face is in frame.

 ** _Looking good bro_** **😉** Comes through less than a minute later. God, okay. 

“Winky face. Tell me what that means, girl.” In response, Nelly does a cute head tilt thing that she does sometimes, that just makes her look like the “hmmmm” emoji. “Yeah. No idea either, love.”

 _Thanks_ 😉 He texts back, because what the fuck. Fire with fire, and all that, right? Not that this is a fight, or a competition, or even— 

**_Loved the moustache on your last post too. You can definitely rock that look, bro_ ** **😉**

Yeah, no, okay, then. Wink parade. This is definitely flirting.

_Hey, thanks! Wasn’t sure when they first showed me the outfit and hair+make-up concept, but it turns out I’d have had a promising career as a softcore actor in the 80’s._

**_LOL, indeed. Hide your wives, gentlemen_ ** **🔥**

Taron blushes despite himself, despite the “wives” thing, perches an elbow on the table and bites the end of his pinky finger, thinking of a potential reply. He doesn’t get to ponder for much longer, however, because another message comes in.

**_When do you start filming? May be wrong but I think I saw an email from my agent a couple of weeks ago, saying they were looking for extras for Tetris._ **

**_And that you’d be filming in Glasgow?_ **

_Oh_. Taron hadn’t even put two and two together, but now he has, this seemingly innocent flirting session might mean one of two totally different things. Either Craig wants to network and hook up some work… or he just wants to hook up. That’s not… actually, precisely a thing Taron’s dared to do before. Dating, sure. Romance, absolutely. But this feels slightly... Grindr-y? If that’s even what’s going on. God, maybe Craig just wants to talk about the industry and how much he likes dogs. Who the f knows.

He can feel Nelly fully judging him as he types out a reply.

_Starting on the second week of Jan! And yes, in Glasgow._

_Oh, wait, you live there, don’t you?_ he adds, feigning blissful ignorance.

“Nell, am I fully 15 years old again?” Nelly doesn’t reply. “Should I ask him to get a drink?” She just sits in the chair next to him, looking at him as if she’s waiting for him to just get on with it. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, baby girl. I will.”

 **_I do indeed, sir_ ** **😉** **_Been pretty quiet here lately, too cold for golf. Pubs should be open, though? If you care for a pint after work some time?_ **

“Well, he beat me to it, didn’t he?” he chuckles, scratching the dog’s head with one hand and typing out a response with the other.

_Love to. I was about to ask you the same thing. Shoot me your number and we’ll connect when I’m up there, eh?_

Dots again. So many dots. One would argue, a tad too many dots. And then a phone number... and then more dots. Craig does a lot of self editing. Interesting.

**_Hmu when you get here_ **

**_or just post more pics of that cute pup to get my attention_ ** **😉**

It’s that final wink that does it. “Oh my god, are you kidding me!” Taron actually laughs out loud, making Nelly blink and huff a bit in annoyance. So much for “guileless and earnest.” Still though. It’s surprisingly fun to poke at something unknown like this, confusing but pleasant. Harmless. Sweet.

Taron gives Craig a thumbs up on that last one. If Craig can dish it out, he can certainly take some too.

“Here’s to January 2021, babe.” He raises his mug of tea to Nelly and takes a sip. “Who knows what it’ll bring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this is your first encounter with Paisley, Scotland's favorite son, trainer-turned-model-turned actor Craig McGinlay, then welcome. Have fun looking for pictures of his naked butt: they're out there and they're *fierce*. And if you can't be arsed (hey, get it? ARSED), here's [**one**](https://ttmmanagement.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/CM9-1.jpg). Yeah, yeah, we know: it's glorious.
> 
> Also, in case you were wondering about IG comments, please refer to [**this plethora of screenshots**](https://its-a-soft-science.tumblr.com/post/637064956190375936/if-youre-not-enjoying-the-bromantic-thirst-that) that S has lovingly compiled for you. Yep, Craig is obsessed with Taron. And we live for it. ❤ 
> 
> Coming up: Taron gets invited to the Heavy Entertainment Show ( _it's just the tip, and no-one will know_ ).
> 
> We love you, stay safe and Christmassy,
> 
> S and C x


	10. Robbie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Show us where you’re gonna put this piano then. Gary says he might come over and tutor you a bit. I’m sure he thinks he’s gonna ‘Enry ‘Iggins you into a regular Lang Lang.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Today's song**](https://open.spotify.com/track/7jBePLCZlKuEUc3rSc6izU?si=dFEcVG6gRuKfW2aM87FHdQ) comes from today's guest star. It's our 2020 Christmas song, and also the one who gave this adventure its title. Robbie didn't mean for this to be as good as it is, but... he's just _that_ talented. *shrugs*

Taron’s phone is buzzing on the bathroom counter when he exits the shower, and when he checks the screen he’s greeted by a wall of texts. Very _expressive_ texts.

**_GAZ says he talked to you and you liked his zodiac song?_ **

**_That was my idea, by the way, so you’re welcome. Tim Firth, sure, blah blah_ **

**_But what about my xmas song, dear??_ **

**_Sounds like you’re hangin in there_ **

**_How are you?_ **

**_Here’s a picture of me dog doing crimes_ **

Taron swipes, and there, indeed, is a picture of a small, black and white ball of fluff with its teeth clamped onto a silk pyjama trouser leg with the Versace Medusa head printed all over.

 _What a gangster_ , Taron texts back. Robbie gives it a “!!” and then types.

**_Yeah but how you doing?_ **

_Super. How’s the missus?_

**_Says youre fit. Call me I wanna say hi_ **

And Taron grins, shakes his head, and calls Robbie Williams. Because again, that’s his life.

“Hello lil’ bud,” a gruff, Northern voice greets him. Taron can hear the faint sound of screaming children in the background.

“Hello, Rob,” Taron greets back, matching Robbie’s blokeish tone just for fun.

“How are ya? _Where_ are ya? London? Gaz mentioned something about a lavish pad.”

“Not that lavish,” Taron lies, feeling himself blush. “But yeah, I’m in London.”

“How dreadful,” he sighs, quite dramatically. “Big cities and me, darling, not really a love story. Good thing to have your own space there. How’s things in the Smoke?”

“Not worse than usual, but surprisingly busy. Nipped out to buy something in John Lewis yesterday—got to Bond Street and realised it was a _very_ bad idea.”

“Ugh, don’t even tell me, don’t wanna know,” Robbie chuckles. “But hey, actually, tell me one thing. Was it Christmassy?”

“Were they playing your new cracking tune, d’you mean?”

“Maybe.”

“Then yes. So, _so_ Christmassy, mate. Love it, by the way. The song. It’s like a cute, only just slightly daunting time capsule summary of this fuckin’ year.”

“That was the idea, yeah,” Robbie says, sounding happy and proud. “Well, actually, now that I think about it: that wasn’t the idea at all. Dunno if Gaz mentioned anything…”

“Oh my _God_ , he did,” Taron interrupts, suddenly remembering. Gary did mention something. “He said I should ask you about Christmas songs. He hasn’t spilled any beans on that himself, though, nothing at all. Please, Rob, will you give me the whole story? I can just tell it’ll be good.”

Robbie laughs. “And you’re absolutely right too, brother. Right, so. You know how, ever since we’ve made up and all, we’ve still kept up a healthy dose of competition? Like, he releases an album, I release an album. I make a podcast with my wife—”

“—he goes on your wife’s podcast and they talk shit about you on there, yes, I’m familiar with that one, too.”

“Precisely,” Robbie says. “Can you believe the nerve? Her ‘favourite member of TT’, she says. Unbelievable. Anyways, I digress. Let’s say, this summer I was bored as fuck pacing around my home studio, and thought I’d present him with a challenge for the holiday season: write a terrible Christmas song and unironically release it.” He pauses, possibly waiting for Taron to make a comment, but Taron is _riveted_ and doesn’t dare. This is the best Take That behind-the-scenes ITV special he’s ever tuned into.

Robbie continues. “I just wrote what was going through my mind—wishing for a normal Christmas, for this stupid year to be over, threw a couple jokes in, you know, standard. I had no way of knowing that Gaz would go full Billy Mack on all of us. He took the task to the letter, bless him, always such a good student.” Robbie’s laugh is full of love, even though it’s clearly still at Gary’s expense. “Even he says it’s probably the worst Christmas single of all time. God, the syllables don’t even fit. It’s exquisite.” 

Taron starts to laugh too. God, Gary’s a far better winner and a better loser than he gives himself credit for. “So now…”

“Yeah, exactly, now he has to perform the damn thing all over the airwaves this month, because he’s got the album out. Every time, you can see him just kinda die inside a little bit, poor lad.” Robbie sighs. “I do honestly feel fucking bad for him, even though he clearly won the contest.”

Taron chuckles. “You two are a joy, you know that?”

Robbie’s quiet, and for a moment Taron panics that maybe he’s overstepped. After all, he’s just a fan who somehow became a friend, and he still worries about hitting the right tone with both Robbie and Gary sometimes. Especially since— 

And then the FaceTime beeps have him both jumping and relieved. He swipes to pick up.

“Oh hello, we’re facetiming now are we?”

Robbie’s big, sea green eyes blink back at him. “Yeah, mate.” Then his giant grin fills the screen. “Show me this flat, come on then. Give us the tour. I haven’t been out to someone else’s pad in ages.”

Surprisingly, it takes nothing more for Taron to agree. He takes Robbie to the kitchen, hears him gasp at the sight of the neon blue _Troubadour_ sign. That one still intermittently leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth: everyone and their mother knows that one’s a relic of both his last professional exploit and his last relationship.

“Can’t believe they let you keep that, mate. That’s proper fucking ace, that is.”

“I know,” Taron says, glancing up at it and feeling a familiar rush of fondness at the memories. It’s like the jacket, really. Or it will be, in time maybe.

“Show us where you’re gonna put this piano then. Gary says he might come over and tutor you a bit. I’m sure he thinks he’s gonna ‘Enry ‘Iggins you into a regular Lang Lang.”

Taron laughs. “I’m shooting for Chopsticks. Maybe Your Song.” He walks into the living room. “Right here, I’m thinking?” He gestures to the wall near the window. “Dunno, what do you think?”

“I think you should get it moved in, then see what the captain thinks. If you do have him over, he’ll let you know exactly the most acoustically advantageous spot in the whole room for it.” Robbie rolls his eyes fondly. “Let him be in charge, he’s softened in his old age but he still thrives when he’s bossing other good looking, younger men around.” Robbie grins devilishly and waggles his eyebrows, then shakes his head and laughs at himself. It’s like mercury the way he changes, flying from one idea to the next. “Ah fuck, listen to me. You know, I have to put a quarter in a jar every time I talk about Gaz behind his back. And then I use the money to buy him a chia seed pudding or some such hellish thing next time I see him!”

Taron laughs along, while thinking about letting Gary Barlow boss him around. 

“I’ll pitch in for the next one. Want to see the bedroom?”

Robbie’s eyes widen, then he frowns thoughtfully, weighing the question. “Been a while since I heard that line, but sure.”

The tour continues, Robbie offering running commentary, compliments and playful nonsense as they go. Finally after Robbie critiques his shower curtain and asks to inspect the selection of skincare products in the cupboard over the sink, a loud female voice interrupts them.

“Roooob? Will you come sing to Beau so he eats his dinner?”

Robbie’s face lights up. “Ah, that’ll be the missus. Right, Taron, duty calls but you’re coming with me.”

“Gladly,” Taron replies, watching as Robbie strolls through a seemingly endless immaculate corridor. He thinks they’re in Switzerland, now? Not sure. He’s lost track, to be completely honest.

When Robbie gets to his destination, he flips the camera around and shows Taron his kitchen, Ayda looking dashing in a deep purple tracksuit and ponytail, and the newest addition to their family, Beau, sitting in his high chair and screaming murder at a tiny plate of peas and carrots.

“Why are you filming me?” she asks, sounding a bit exasperated. “Really not the time, Rob.”

“I’m on the FaceTime with Taron, babe! C’mon, give me that,” he says, reaching a hand out for the baby spoon she’s holding. “And take this, say hi to a dashing young actor.”

Taron sees her smile, her face relaxing instantly as she hands Robbie the spoon. “Thanks, love.” Taron can hear a fleeting smooch, then Ayda turns the camera and her face fills the screen. “Oh hi, gorgeous! How are things?”

“Hey yourself! Yeah, good. All good here.”

What follows is a pleasant ten-minute chat that has Ayda in full mum mode, asking if he’s working, eating well, exercising, keeping busy, and Taron nodding and smiling and blushing and looking at her magnificent eyebrows a tad too much. 

“You know Taron, and I don’t say this lightly, this isn’t something I say to just anybody, but you could _absolutely_ come stay with us any time you want, you know that, right? I mean it’s a bit hectic with the dogs and the kids—”

“Maybe in the summer though!” Robbie yells from the background, still feeding Beau. He’s taken a break from singing a revised version of 1993 Take That #1 single _Pray_ , that features new lyrics about eating dinner without kicking up a fuss. 

“Um, yeah! Sure?” Taron can’t see the harm in accepting the invitation. “Yeah, I’d love to come round for dinner sometime, when I’m… um, wherever you happen to be at the time.”

Ayda arches an elegant eyebrow and smiles winningly. “You can come round for more than dinner. You’re on my list. Right, Rob?” She turns the camera slightly, and over her shoulder Robbie throws an immediate and vehement thumbs up in the air above his head, while still crooning to the baby. 

“Mine too, mate!” he calls out, and then launches into _It Only Takes A Minute_ , which also gets a topical revamp and mentions peas and carrots.

“You two are far, far too kind.” Taron smiles as politely as he can, while actually casting his eyes around his flat. Nobody else is here. He’s being casually propositioned by Ayda Field and Robbie fucking Williams and there is literally nobody here to witness it except Nelly and two houseplants. 

“Oh my god, no pressure though, babe.” Ayda flashes her perfect but very sincere smile again.

“Noooo, of course, no worries!” Taron shakes his head, reassuring her. “Let’s play it by ear.”

Ayda winks. “You got it.” Then she turns. “Robbie, I’m gonna let Taron go, you done?”

Robbie twists around and grins back at the camera. “Hey, Merry Christmas ya filthy animal. Love you Taron, okay? Love you!” He smooches the air and then turns back to his son, who seems to have almost as impressive a voice as he does. 

Taron waves to Ayda. “Merry Christmas to you all as well. Good luck with dinner.”

Ayda blows a kiss and ends the call, and Taron just blinks for a moment. It’s another of those moments when he wonders what the fuck his life has become. A threesome with Rob and Ayda, sounds overwhelming as heck; and yet, as much as the simple concept of a threesome absolutely terrifies him—can’t believe he went public with that specific piece of information, last year—he somehow feels that those two would manage to make it hot and fun and stress-free and everything in between.

God, he misses sex. He doesn’t, most days, but the thought of it now… He locks his phone and sighs. If only—

The screen lights up again, and he can’t help the whispered “Oh, God” that escapes his mouth.

It’s a message. A message from _Colin_.

He thumbs it open at light speed. It looks like he’s missed at least three others, before this latest one.

**_Good morning, Taron. I hope you’re well. I found myself thinking of you, so I thought I’d reach out._ **

**_I’m afraid I actually can’t stop thinking of you. I wish we could meet up, somehow, but that’ll obviously have to wait._ **

**_For now, though, I’d like you to call me tonight, if you don’t mind. That’d make me very happy._ **

**_Would you?_ **

It’s absolutely Pavlovian, the way Taron’s cheeks fire up and his heartbeat quickens. He stands in the middle of his living room frozen for a good ten seconds, a reel of mental images (one filthier than the other) flashing before his eyes. 

He snaps out of it quicker than he thought he could, and types out a reply.

_Hi, Col. It’ll be my pleasure. What time?_

_I’ve also been thinking of you_ , he adds, but then deletes it before pressing _send_. Better let him know directly, whenever the call will happen.

**_Very good. 9 PM is fine. Looking forward to it._ **

Taron looks at his watch. 11:35 AM. What the fuck’s he supposed to do to fill 9.5 hours?

Eventually, he figures it out. He takes Nelly on three walks, cleans the flat, irons clothes he won’t be wearing for God knows how long, makes several cups of tea, and chefs up a surprisingly tasty stir fry with leftovers he had sitting in the fridge for a couple days too long. 

And then, as 9 PM ticks, he settles in his bed, propped up against several pillows. He ponders faking modesty and wearing a shirt, but he quickly discards that idea.

They’re on the phone for two hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, now you have the whole story about Gary going full Billy Mack with _Incredible Christmas_. We've discussed this at length between us, and we've come to the conclusion that it's the only possible reason behind such a weird song.  
> Also yes, Robbie and Ayda are #goals. And yes, we love them. Here, have a random [podcast recommendation](https://open.spotify.com/show/7uwfsU5BJsG1DcofGuWJH8?si=xcJ_2WCST7usZH2Zq0W5vA). They're hilarious, and new episodes are coming out pretty regularly now that the season calls for Robbie to promote his Chrimbo tunes. 
> 
> Coming up: Taron has a sex question, and texts a friend about it.  
> (we couldn't think of a clever hint for this one, but if you want to guess, feel free to do so in the comments below, and we'll tell you if you're warm or cold)
> 
> See you tomorrow for more, peeps!
> 
> S and C xx


	11. Charlie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m about to blow your mind, Charlie.” Taron arched an eyebrow. “Elton John’s a _top_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got the most adorable treat for you today. **[Here](https://open.spotify.com/track/4rmIfFUZhhi9sS5IYtpkXw?si=To90f3FUTX2e15KpsrRKMw)** 's our song, from our top band of 2020. Seemed apropos.
> 
> And by the way: your very expensive painting is upside down.

The first time Charlie asked a sex question was years ago. They were hanging out in Taron’s trailer, looking through some new pages.

“So this scene… this love scene.” Charlie cleared his throat. “Is… um, are you, or is John? Because it looks like—”

“Mate, why are you even reading that scene?”

“I like to read the whole thing, like a book. Dunno why anyone would skip scenes, it’s a whole movie, isn’t it? Besides, Dex said I could!” He grinned, then looked down, thoughtful again. “This is going to sound stupid, but I don’t get it. The way the scene’s written, it seems like maybe John Reid’s… taking it?” Charlie squinted. “Can that be right?”

“I’m about to blow your mind, Charlie.” Taron arched an eyebrow. “Elton John’s a _top_.”

Charlie squinted more. “Wait…” And then he laughs. “Okay I’m only saying this to you, because I don’t know if this sounds homophobic or… but I just don’t see it? Like is there something about gay sex that I just don’t… get?”

Taron remembers trying not to laugh, and almost succeeding for exactly three seconds before starting to shake with silent giggling. “Charlie!!”

“Fuck off! I’m serious! Shut up!”

“No mate, you’re fine, I’m sorry. Okay, here’s the thing.” 

And then he proceeded to explain Elton John’s sexuality as illustrated in the screenplay and the man’s diaries. He explained topping and bottoming, and managed to do so without digging himself into too much of a mortifying hole of oversharing. The whole time, Charlie listened with _rapt_ attention. And when Taron finished, Charlie just shook his head in wonderment. 

“Taron. That was one of the most helpful, informative fucking conversations I’ve ever had with anybody, like ever.” He beamed. “I’m gonna ask you any time I have a question about sex.” 

And that’s how it started.

A couple of months after that, Charlie texted Taron around half past eleven.

**_Hey_ **

**_Quick Q, I’m on a date_ **

**_Does a vibrator do anything on the inside, or just on the clit?? Asking for science_ **

_Don't be texting me from someone's bed, I swear to god_

**_I went in her bathroom! M8 i need this to go well, any intel is soooooo appreciated_ **

And so Taron rolled his eyes, sighed, and then tried to explain as quickly and clearly as possible how vibrators are really different and _people_ are really different, and the best policy is always just to ask somebody how they want to use a sex toy rather than guessing or working solely based on theory.

_But when in doubt, default to outside?_

**_TYSM!_ **

**_Sex info_** **💯** ** _as always T, you’re a star_**

And then there was the time toward the start of lockdown, back at the end of March. 

Charlie had been texting him terrible dystopian memes for a few days, and Taron was beginning to worry just a bit about the lad but had also started slightly losing his own mind, so he hadn’t really given it much special consideration. 

Then, 3:30 PM, mid-week, Charlie texted again.

**_Why is gay porn hot, is that normal_ **

Taron considered for a moment, then typed the most logical thing.

_Probably bc you're bisexual_

_good luck ❤_

And okay, maybe that hadn’t been fair. But it was funny. Taron hadn’t been at his very best right then at that moment in history, either.

**_I'm not tho?_ **

**_Ugh fuck seriously?_ **

_I don't make the rules, love_

**_NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING BI but i’m just slightly overwhelmed rn, you know?_ **

Taron had felt a bit of remorse then, for being so flippant. Poor Charlie, probably cracking up alone in his flat, watching porn and feeling confused. Taron had never explicitly signed on to be Charlie’s sex mentor or personal Sexpedia or whatever, but that’s the position he’d found himself in. And so he tried to be a bit more helpful and compassionate.

_Seriously don’t freak out. It’s probably hot because you’re bored and lonely. And perhaps bi, which would be fine._

_I’d high five you._

**_OK… I’ll keep you posted._ **

_Honestly you really don’t need to_

**_Nope, I owe it to you to keep you in the loop_ **

_JFC_ 😂

😂 ** _sorry M8. thanks for making me laugh. Sex info_** **💯**

And that had been the end of that one. Thinking back now, Taron was actually really happy Charlie trusted him enough to ask ridiculous sex questions.

Especially since Taron has one now.

He doesn’t imagine Charlie will actually have any expertise about this, or even really have an answer. He mostly just needs to bounce it off someone, and it’s too embarrassing to ask any of his Aber mates or, God forbid, Colin. That’s not the point of the thing with Colin at all. The point of that seems to be… Well. It seems to be more like, scratching an itch? But there’s more than that. He knows it, deep down. And he’s 90% sure that Colin feels the same.

But again, Colin specifically is not the point. It’s about way more than him, this common thread that he’s (probably deliberately, let’s face it) ignored for years. The sheer magnetism that always has him lust over older men; it’s only partially conscious most of the time, sure… But it’s definitely there.

_Hey Charlie. I realised I might have a problem._

**_Hiii! what is it, T? Tell your old pal_ **

_I think I have an age kink?_

**_Omg a daddy kink??_ **

Taron both cringes and smiles to himself as he thinks of his exchange with Jamie.

_I mean, not exactly. More like—idk I’m obsessed with the idea of men having more experience than me, in all aspects of life I guess_

**_That makes sense tbh. Did anything trigger this, or are you just alone with your thoughts and wanking over pictures of Colin Firth?_ **

Damn. Definitely busted.

_Actually, bit of both. It’s not just him, though, it’s been… it’s been an odd couple of weeks, honestly. Never heard from so many people as I have recently. And most of them fit in that category?_

**_What category? Daddies?_ **

_Omg Charlie STOP_

_But also, yes?_ he adds, after thinking it through. He bites his lip and smiles as more dots appear.

**_I guess it’s a cross you have to bear, innit. You seem to be surrounded by all kinds of hot people, and most of them happen to be older men. Isn’t that sort of a constant to you?_ **

**_But also, seriously, how are you feeling about this? You enjoying it, or is it overwhelming?_ **

_I guess it depends on the day. For example, I was more or less propositioned by Ayda and Robbie Williams yesterday? We were on FaceTime and they suggested we’d have a threesome sometime in the near future_

_My life is fuckin ridiculous mate_

**_Oh my god_ **

**_Brb, screenshotting this and selling it to the Daily Mail_ **

_Don’t you dare. Besides, no one would believe you_

**_Probably fair, yeah_ **

**_But would you?_ **

_Would I what_

**_Have a threesome with Ayda and Robbie_ **

_Honestly?_

Charlie just sends **👀**

_Probably. Yes._

**_LOL, you go girl_ **

_Oh I’m also having Gary Barlow come to my house and teach me how to play the piano. In January, he said. His idea, btw_

**_Shut the fuck up_ **

**_He’s going to top you so hard???_ **

**_(am I using that correctly)_ **

Taron laughs out loud and feels himself blush. Because Charlie, bless him, has just hit the nail on the head. He thinks fondly of the dream he had a few nights ago, and he wonders if he can force that image back into his subconscious. No harm in fantasising about a considerably less innocent scenario, for those piano lessons, is there?

_You are indeed, my friend! Well done ⭐⭐⭐_

_Also fuck me, you’re so right. I hope I don’t just make a giant fool of myself_

**_I’m sure you won’t, T_ **

**_You are, after all, absolutely irresistible_ **

_Oh shut up_

**_I’m serious! You made me doubt myself, for a sec_ **

Taron raises an eyebrow as he types _ME? I thought it’d have been more_ —but he doesn’t finish the sentence. He erases everything after the question mark, and sends it.

**_Yeah, YOU. You stood out for me._ **

**_I know what you’re thinking. You, as opposed to Dick? Dickhead? (What are we calling him, is this ok?)_ **

Taron laughs wholeheartedly and shakes his head. Thank fuck for Charlie Rowe.

_(Dickhead is absolutely fine)_

**_(Thought so. Fuck him, by the way)_ **

**_ANYWAYS yes, you. You hot piece of ass, you. Go get all those dads, okay?_ **

**_Enjoy them for me. Bit jealous, not gonna lie_ **

_You’re a hot piece of ass yourself, you know_

_Also, you sure you’re not bi? ;)_

**_Less and less by the minute_ **

**_Maybe that’s one for my therapist. Will still keep you posted, yeah?_ **

_Massively looking forward to it. Love you mate x_

**_Love you more xxx_ **

_Oh and Charlie?_

**_Yeah?_ **

_Thank you. Sex info_ **💯**

**_You’re welcome, kid 😏_**

_Shut up, I’m 7 years older than you_

**_OMG_ **

**_Daddy?_ **

_Absolutely shut up xxx_

**_Love youuuuu xxxxxx_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading today! Elton John is a top.  
> Coming up: Taron gets an inspired proposition, and some direction.
> 
> Stay with us, we love ya,
> 
> S and C xx


	12. Dexter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On December 12, in the middle of the afternoon, while he’s watering the one plant he hasn’t (yet) managed to kill, Taron gets a text.
> 
> CHUCKLE BROTHERS 2022 ARE YOU IN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Today's song](https://open.spotify.com/track/2DDpuUJC2YAFGCDC0UbKct)! Please enjoy the benevolent chaotic energy of everyone's favourite director.

On December 12, in the middle of the afternoon, while he’s watering the one plant he hasn’t (yet) managed to kill, Taron gets a text.

**_CHUCKLE BROTHERS 2022 ARE YOU IN_ **

It takes a while to understand what the fuck beloved actor-director and Taron’s close personal friend Dexter Fletcher is on about, but then he remembers: they did say, one time during a Q&A last year, that Taron would play both Chuckle Brothers in their next biopic collaboration. Which would be absolutely hilarious, to be fair. Still, this is extremely random, so he has to ask.

_Hey mate, always in and you know it. But I thought we were gonna venture into fiction?_

And then his phone starts ringing. Taron’s not surprised in the slightest: Dex has never really been one for texting.

“‘Ello sir,” he greets, cheerful, as he picks up the call.

“Alright mate?” Dex sounds as chipper and cockney as ever.

“What’re you on about, then? Didn’t you say you might have a part for me in _Sherlock Holmes_ 3?”

“I do still have that part for you, of course. I mean, I still need to bring it up with the people at Warner Brothers, but I maintain you’d make a mighty fine Sebastian Moran. We just need to work on your Irish accent a bit, I reckon.”

“Hey, fuck off. I can do a _perfect_ Irish accent, thank you very much,” Taron replies, in an Irish accent.

Dex guffaws. “Sure you can. They didn’t give you a Golden Globe for nothin’, eh?”

“Precisely. But this other idea... I thought we were done with biopics?”

“I thought so too, but… I dunno, I stumbled upon that Q&A from last year when I said that jokingly, and now I keep thinking about it. It would be such an amazing acting challenge for you to play two characters. I mean, somebody else, not the bloody Chuckle Brothers obviously, although I’m sure there’s some pathos behind those moustaches.” Dex laughs, with a sparkle of energy in his voice that gets Taron genuinely excited. This is Dex in brainstorming mode, extra creative. Taron’s learned to just give him space to run, it always results in something amazing.

“Well, if you’re serious, alright then! I mean, you know I’m up for everything when it comes to you, don’t ya? Even if you make my life a misery for months on end.”

“You love it really.”

“I do, I love it,” Taron admits, glancing fondly at the _Troubadour_ sign on his kitchen wall. “I miss it a lot, you know,” he then adds. He’s talking more to himself than to Dex, but he still says it out loud.

“I miss it too. And I miss you! Looking forward to a big dinner together when this is over.”

“Somewhere posh, eh? I miss good food.”

“As long as you’re paying, mate, I’m open to everything,” Dex replies, chuckling. “Is takeaway not great, where you are? It’s pretty good around ‘ere!”

“It’s not that, just… I prefer cooking for myself, really. But I’m not very creative with it, lately. Just got into a bit of a slump, you know. I’ve got no-one to impress, so it’s never anything super elaborate.” 

As soon as he’s said that, Taron feels himself deflating. Where’s all this oversharing even coming from? They were just talking about going out for a fancy dinner, and now he’s going on about feeling lonely. _Get it together, Taron; this ain’t a goddamned therapy session._ Which he definitely should schedule, he reminds himself. He hasn’t spoken to his therapist since… Well, since before that late night tipsy phone call with Colin at the beginning of the month, really. So. _Yeah._

“Aw, mate, you should treat yourself, though! It’s Christmas! Did Jamie teach you nothin’, last year?”

Taron casts his mind to that day spent in Southend Pier, cooking with Jamie Oliver. He remembers the funny feeling in his stomach, those butterflies he got while he was desperately trying to get everything right. He also remembers how good it felt to be told he’d done a good job, and… Yup, another one for his tally. Damn. Schedule. Therapy.

“He did, in fact, teach me how to make a _gorgeous_ turkey dinner. And my mam’s trifle. And… Yeah, fine, okay, I see what you mean,” he concedes. “I’m whipping out one of his cookbooks tonight and cooking up a feast.”

“Woohoo! That’s the spirit, mate!” Dex exclaims. “If it’s good, send me some, eh?”

“Wish I could have you here for dinner instead,” Taron says, a tad melancholy.

“I know, Taron. Me too. But hey, listen: want to set up a proper catch-up in the next coupla days? Over Zoom, or summat? With cameras an’ all, I mean, and talk shop a little bit? I know it always gets my juices flowing, talking to you. And God knows we both need a bit of that right now, eh?”

“Yeah Dex, I would actually love that.” The prospect of doing something creative, dreaming about something new, starts something glowing inside him and chases away the shadows at the edges of things. When he hangs up with Dex, it’s like the sun’s come out from behind a cloud he hadn’t realized was there. 

He really needs to connect with his artist friends more often. In fact, he knows just who else he really wants to speak with, and dashes off a quick text to schedule a Zoom. With any luck, he may even get to see them tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was curious about the Chuckle Brothers shout, you can listen all about that and more in [this fantastic podcast](https://open.spotify.com/episode/1tQ8qYLHfuicRb5y7Ig1Wv?si=FBcIxqyOQQCjEecFmABqrw), which is one of our favourite Q&A's these two have EVER done. And they've done one or two, last year.
> 
> Coming up: Four lovely ladies serenade Taron over zoom.
> 
> Thanks for continuing to read along this month!
> 
> See ya tomorrow,
> 
> S and C x


	13. Brandi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You’re feeling nervous, aren’t you, boy?_   
>  _With your quiet voice and impeccable style_   
>  _Don't ever let them steal your joy_   
>  _And your gentle ways_   
>  _To keep 'em from running wild_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's song is [The Joke](https://open.spotify.com/track/18k8IlS52uxRWObykDUZFG?si=bz2_5pGpTyCJdTWV877czw) by Brandi Carlile. Do yourself a favor and listen to the whole album, **By The Way, I Forgive You**. It's amazing. And at the time of posting this chapter, [Brandi will be doing her holiday livestream in a few hours](https://brandicarlile.veeps.com/)!

When the Zoom call connects, Taron is greeted by a soft melody he knows very well, and he almost instantly wells up. What a way to start a Christmas catch-up with Brandi Carlile, her wife, and her two kids. Blubbing through Brandi’s flawless rendition of _A Case of You_.

“Brandi, I…”

She stops playing immediately and smiles brightly at him. “Only kidding, kiddo. I wouldn’t, not this early in the game,” she says with a wink, lifting her acoustic guitar over her head for Catherine to pick it up. “Thanks, honey,” she tells her, then goes back to looking at Taron and her expression turns from elated to worried. “Gosh, hi, Taron, you okay? I’m sorry sweetie, this wasn’t at all what I meant by—”

“It’s okay, love, I’m okay,” Taron says, surprisingly finding that he means it. A lot of things in his life have been associated with that song. It’s been with him for years and years, really. But perhaps the most vivid memories he has of it are two: Bleddyn, his lifelong best mate—his first tragic love, really, for whom he would still drop everything in a heartbeat—covering it for Taron’s 30th birthday, and Brandi, looking dashing and powerful in an all-blue suit, singing it at that intimate concert she held last year, that Taron was miraculously invited to. The night ended with him and Elton doing a jam session and singing _Tiny Dancer_ to Joni Mitchell in her living room, and… yeah, what the fuck. “I’m great, actually,” he says, smiling big and swallowing some of the emotion down. “I’m so happy we’re doing this.”

“Man, me too. The girls have been dying to talk to you.” She turns and yells, happily, “Hey, Cath? Taron’s on!” Then she grins. “Gosh, wait till you see the sweaters they got.”

Brandi and Catherine’s eldest, Evangeline, sashays into the room with a calm smile, holding out the hem of her sweater. “Taron, _look_. You’re on this, you’re on my sweater, I know that this is your voice!” And sure enough, in the knit pattern of her jumper, a little Moomintroll squints adorably from the bottom of the garment. 

“Oh my _land_ , you’re absolutely right.” Taron tries to address Evangeline with all the respect she commands and gravity that the situation requires, while simultaneously dying from the cuteness. “That is totally me. That’s me being Moomintroll, how did I get on there? Did one of your mums knit that?”

“Oh my god, as if,” Brandi laughs. “I have a friend who knits, I got her the pattern book and made requests.” 

“TARON.” He nods, eyes wide, when Elijah calls for his attention. She’s got her sweater pulled up for him to see as well. “Taron, I got the mean girl on mine, look at this. _Look._ ”

“That is _mental_. I love that. You two, these jumpers are _so. Cool._ ” Both children nod matter-of-factly in agreement. 

“And we’re going to sing you a song, we’re all going to sing you a song after we talk.”

“Okay, can’t wait. Good stuff.” Taron meet’s Brandi’s eyes and laughs with her. “You guys are keeping busy then.” 

“Buddy. You have no idea. So busy.” Brandi sighs, and the undercurrent of exhaustion is audible. “It’s good though, seriously. Lots to be grateful for.”

“Can we see your brown dog?” Elijah inquires. 

“Yes, let me find her. She’d love to say hi.”

Taron rounds up Nelly, which holds the children’s attention for about forty-five seconds. It’s fine, Nelly is also 100% done with this kind of video call command performance, she tired of this business sometime early in November.

Brandi and Catherine and the girls gather tight around the camera with Brandi’s guitar, and they all sing a few holiday songs of the girls’ choosing. Even over video, it feels good to raise his voice with other people and belt out a few Christmas classics. Brandi’s crew even dishes out a few harmonies together, and Taron rewards them with thunderous applause.

Afterward, Brandi’s beaming. “It’s so good to see you, T. Seriously, we should do this again.”

“Agreed!” 

“You gonna watch the livestream tonight?”

Taron sighs. “You know I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

That night, at a stupid time, he makes a cup of herbal tea and sits in front of Brandi’s concert. It’s a Christmassy wonder through and through, traditional carols and Joni’s _River_ , of course. And then, Brandi says something. She looks straight into the camera, and says:

“This next song is for my talented and gorgeous friend, who’s watching us all the way from London. T, you’re the most incredible man, don’t ever forget that. And keep shining on.”

_You’re feeling nervous, aren’t you, boy?_

_With your quiet voice and impeccable style_

_Don't ever let them steal your joy_

_And your gentle ways_

_To keep 'em from running wild_

And this time no one’s looking at him, so he can cry. And he does. He listens to this beautiful song and he cries and he cries, and it’s the most incredible feeling. It’s liberating and cathartic and fucking everything that’s good. 

It’s something he hasn’t had in ages, the gift of music. It truly is, he realises, the best gift of all: someone’s words, poured straight from their heart into his. Someone like Brandi, too. Someone queer and sensitive and just overall _wonderful_ like Brandi, singing to him that it’s okay to be anxious and feel like the whole world is against him, sometimes. Reminding him that, ultimately, fuck what everyone else wants for him or thinks of him, his life is only his, and he can do what he wants with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [book of Moomin knitting patterns](https://us.deramores.com/products/novita-x-moomin-moominvalleys-favourite-knits?variant=23287305011258) that the kids' jumpers came from. So dang cute!
> 
> We're halfway to Christmas, that's kind of amazing.
> 
> Coming up: Feud™️ update! Taron does some scheming with an ally.
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Love,  
> S & Cxx


	14. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _May I suggest a kilt, to get the message across even better?_   
>  _  
>  **Canny thenk a wiy the fuck nae ;)**   
>  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Today's song](https://open.spotify.com/track/3VTNVsTTu05dmTsVFrmGpK?si=AKxpEeCVQEuhRzRaJAfcqA) is the right amount of cheeky for today's special guest. It was either this or the Chordettes, but this is Christmassy so it won. ;)
> 
>  _Mr Sandman, bring us a dream..._ 🎶

**_Hugh messaged me about the Feud_ ** **_™️_ **, James McAvoy informs Taron in the DM he’s just opened.

**_Reynolds did too, but I’ve chosen my side. Don’t care if they fight over me. I can’t endorse American (??!?!?) gin_ **

**_Is nothing sacred anymore?_ **

Taron chuckles and types out, _I believe that’s what you Scots would label as ‘pish’, isn’t it_

_Also, hi, sir, long time no speak_

**_Indeed it is, sorry about that. Crazy times_ **

**_Glad we’re back together once more, on this ridiculous ride in the magical, stupid world of Hugh Jackman_ **

**_Is the coffee even good? I didn’t ask, too busy abhorring the ‘gin’_ **

_I can confirm it is, indeed, pretty good. Ethically sourced, too_

**_Yeah Hugh gave me the whole spiel. Sounds like a great business he’s got going on_ **

_It is Hugh we’re talking about. When does he ever make a faux pas?_

**_Touché. Fuck him he’s too perfect_ **

**_And we are too, by transitivity, because we’re clever enough to associate ourselves with him_ **

**_This is a win-win scenario, far as I’m concerned._ **

_Absolutely agreed- our team’s definitely the strongest_

**_Yeah, who’s Reynolds got, apart from the poor man’s Peter Parker and Captain Dick Pic?_ **

Taron bites his lip as he chuckles again. Then he spaces out a bit, remembering that 2020, amongst heaps of pain and suffering, also brought the world an artsy B&W shot of Chris Evans’s impressive dick. 

_He did turn that into a get out the vote campaign_

**_Oh yeah, good on him_ **

**_Joe Biden owes him a solid, that’s probably what saved us all_ **

Twenty minutes later, they have a strategy. Taron is going to film a few short and funny endorsement videos for Laughing Man Coffee, while James is going to go all out and shit on Aviation Gin. He’ll lay the ‘Glesga patter’ on quite thick, too, he says; the message he’s going for is, paraphrasing, something along the lines of ‘leave gin to the Scots, ye Yank miscreants’. Then, they’re going to collate them and post them to Instagram and Twitter.

**_A solid plan, my dear boy_ **

_I think so too, thanks. It’s going to be hilarious?_

James texts him a storm of thumbs up emojis in response, which feels very nice.

This whole plan is actually Chris Hemsworth’s doing, really. That video he posted where he said mean things about Reynolds in the most polite of ways, smiling charmingly throughout, really was an inspiration. But Taron’s not going to mention that to James, he doesn’t think; he kinda likes James thinking highly of him. 

Hmmm. Yep, that’s probably another one for his tally. This is going great. He’ll confess it to Charlie at some point. If he asks.

 _Ryan won’t see this coming_ , he adds.

**_Na feckin way he wid! Canny believe et Taron, yer a rait genius_ **

Taron chuckles at James’ sudden lapse into Internet Scots.

 _It’s a team effort, mate_ 💪Taron adds a Welsh flag and Scottish flag emoji, just for extra flair.

_May I suggest a kilt, to get the message across even better?_

**_Canny thenk a wiy the fuck nae ;)_ **

**_Not like Hugh hasn’t practically shown his baws to the entire world, a few months back. They can get mine too, it’ll be seamless. Ton-sur-ton._ **

_Classy_ , Taron thinks, then he remembers who he’s talking to and wonders why he’s even surprised to read such things coming from him. James is a filthy, filthy man.

Just as he’s about to reply, he gets another message.

**_Let’s chat more about ma baws and your cute face soon, eh? You’re going to have to be extra sweet, you know that right?_ **

_Don’t you read the magazines, James? They throw the term ‘heartthrob’ around quite a bit_

_Latest issue of GQ Italy will confirm what I just said ;)_

**_Oh boy, I just googled that. Sweet gig with Montblanc, congrats_ **

**_Who’s that bird on your arm? lol_ **

**_Yeah you do look positively yummy_ **🔥 

James drops a few more warm, flirty messages his way over the next hour or so, and Taron encourages him with a heart each time. 

**_OK talk soon re: videos. Also I never said, but seriously, you saved my arse with the Sandman stuff and I never managed to thank you properly. You were my favourite Morpheus stand-in, brother._ **

_You giant flatterer, shut up_

**_I’m serious!!_ **

_Okay well thanks. It was lovely. Dreamy, even_

**_Truly magical_ **

_Ugh_

**_Fuck Ryan Reynolds_ **🖕🖕

Taron laughs, and then replies:

🖕 **😇🖕**

This should be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some context on what these two are talking about:  
> \- [Chris Hemsworth really did this](https://www.instagram.com/p/CIjP0kMJndy/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link), and we want to stress a thousand times that we wrote this chapter _before_ Hems posted, because apparently manifestation is a real thing and we keep predicting stuff?  
> \- [James talked to Chris Hewitt of Empire Podcast](https://open.spotify.com/episode/3wKl1AyrMqCDIW0KKVtS4O?si=FXYrMl1oRKGsG2AtJeXanw) during the summer, hence the Morpheus stand-in comment. If you haven't listened and you love yourself a bit of Jamesie, we wholeheartedly recommend it. 
> 
> And for some real questions: has anybody actually tried Laughing Man Coffee or Aviation Gin? 
> 
> Coming up: Taron's famously fabulous butt gets complimented, and he makes a promise.
> 
> See you tomorrow!  
> Love,  
> S & C xx


	15. David

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Taron. Have you seen him.” David’s tone is grave. “Have you seen his arms? This is not a rhetorical question, I want to make sure you’ve seen them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's song is, quite obviously, [this one](https://open.spotify.com/track/1r7XEmPjHDk5WNsurFTYbU?si=GT5yjqSBR_Cv-Cm7-oFkVg).
> 
> Taron is a well-loved man. Welcome back to Rocketman Memory Lane.
> 
> ⭐💙⭐💙⭐💙⭐💙⭐

Taron has just finished filming his first video for his and James’s joint contribution to the Feud . It’s a short clip of himself standing in front of his kitchen cabinet, looking tired and in need of a pick-me-up (that didn’t even need to be faked, of course, he’s perennially tired these days), selecting a bag of Laughing Man Coffee, and putting a dose in his Moka pot. Then, fast-forward ten minutes, he’s looking all smiley and chipper and ready to start the day. “This truly is great coffee: you won’t get this kind of energy from Aviation Gin. But hey, tell you what: don’t take it from me. I’ll let  _ James  _ explain what Aviation Gin might do to you,” he sealed it off, as a segue into James’s section, which according to their ‘script’ will feature a list of reasons why Aviation Gin is poison and one should never drink it, ever.

He’s watching it back on his phone and chuckling to himself when a notification pops up. A WhatsApp message from David Furnish, no less. And the sun is shining outside, for once. What a blessèd day even is this?

**_ Hello sweet man! Look at what Zach and Eli drew last night! _ **

The following messages are two pictures - both very brightly colored with lots of detail. These are clearly Elton’s kids. Taron scans them for a while, then just starts to giggle.

_ DAVID! Is that me?? You’re kidding with these, omg _

**_ It is indeed you, confirmed. _ **

The boys have drawn nearly identical pictures, or at least pictures strongly influenced by one another’s. They look like typical family portraits, except of course, they’re not portraits of a typical family. The boys both figure prominently, and Taron can make a guess about which one drew which picture by how detailed and centrally placed the smallest figures look in each drawing. Then David and Elton standing nearby—David looking quite tall with a big smile, and Elton adoringly depicted as a sort of triple scoop, rainbow hued ice cream cone of a man with a grin and big glasses. There are other elements, too—puppies at the edge of the picture, a Christmas tree in the background of one, something that looks like maybe Spider-Man or perhaps a ninja-like figure, hanging in the upper regions of the paper. And then there’s another character in both pictures—white overalls, blue shirt, wild, shaggy hair and big glasses. He’s smiling while doing a handstand on a rustically-rendered-in-magic-marker piano, surrounded by stars.

**_ They’re allowed to watch the Troubadour scene (and not much else!) but they know you’re Elton, of course. They have a joke that Dad had a magical floating butt when he was young, hence the levitation. Elton does nothing to disabuse them of this belief, and in fact plays into it.  _ **

_ That is actually EXACTLY how I played that scene from an acting standpoint. I’m *so* glad that came through! lol _

David calls him then, and they chat for a bit about this and that, holiday plans, David and Elton’s intent to once more shower Tina with gifts.

“We’ve not forgotten her love of a hamper, Taron. It needs to be done, I’m sorry.” David adds playfully, “I’ll have them throw something in for you as well, a pot of jam or something.” 

“Thanks, you’re too kind,” Taron jokes. They’re not though, it’s fine. Taron has reached a place now where the combination of David and Elton’s incredible wealth and generosity no longer feels intimidating. Taron’s still not entirely at ease with it, mostly because he can’t quite wrap his head around the sheer quantity of money Elton has spent over the course of his entire life. He does know that David and Elton share a love language of gifts, and when they give him or his family something it’s done with genuine love, and never ostentation. Their hearts are as big as their bank accounts.

“So I’ve heard something interesting…” 

This is another trademark of David’s, hearing something _interesting_. Is it gossip, Taron wonders, if it’s always well intentioned? David always seems to know what’s going on in the world, a true socialite.

David continues, “A friend of mine says you’re going to be in Glasgow next month, shooting. Any truth to that? Because if so, I have a mission for you.”

“That is indeed true, confirmed.” Taron’s bemused. “And this mission, should I choose to accept it?”

“Get a drink with Craig McGinlay.” David sounds _extremely_ pleased with himself. “I don’t know how you’ll do it safely, you’ll have to figure that part out for yourselves and I trust you’ll be careful. But make sure to take that man out and show him a good time.”

“Any reason why?” Taron wonders, could David be matchmaking or networking?

“Taron. Have you seen him.” David’s tone is grave. “Have you seen his arms? This is not a rhetorical question, I want to make sure you’ve seen them.”

“Yes!” Laughing, Taron confirms. “He’s a very… large… he’s very fit. He’s like a tree. It’s a lot.” 

“So there’s your reason, dear. Additionally, he could use some time with someone like you.”

“Someone with a magical floating arse, you mean.”

“Someone with your kind of light inside.” David pauses, then sighs. “Everyone needs friends these days, and he’s really lovely, very big heart on that one, not just muscles. I think you two would get along famously.”

Taron considers. “Alright, you’ve flattered me into doing it. Mission accepted.” 

“There’s a lad, excellent plan.” There’s noise in the background then, some combination of dogs and children, and before Taron knows it, David’s making his excuses and bidding him a quick but fond farewell. 

Taron thinks about Zachary and Elijah, and what it must be like having two fathers like David and Elton. The abundance of it all. He wonders if the boys ever want for anything, or if each day just feels fine, normal, unremarkably full of love.

Taron remembers what he knows of Elton’s childhood, the loneliness and the scarcity of affection, and how Elton grew larger than life, sequin-studded and wildly trying to fill that vacuum around him. Now his sons are growing up feeling safe, happy and held; perhaps even happy enough to grow into normal, boring, well-adjusted adults someday.

Or maybe they’ll end up somewhere in between the two extremes, like Taron, magical floating arse and all, surrounded by stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taron, please, get a drink with the man. Do it for us. Let's all manifest that together, shall we?
> 
> In case you were wondering, btw: [Mam does love a hamper](https://www.instagram.com/p/Br0VAuFlmCc/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link). ❤❤❤
> 
> Coming up: Taron gets summoned. (That's it, that's all you're getting. We're sure you can figure it out.)
> 
> We're so excited for what's to come. Thanks for sticking with us!
> 
> Love,
> 
> S & C xx


	16. Matthew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew Vaughn never texts in advance to check if he can call. He just does it. He calls, and God help Taron if he doesn’t pick it up before the third ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Taron's been getting surprise phone calls all month. This is a big one though.
> 
> Please enjoy [this tune](https://open.spotify.com/track/6AzCBeiDuUXGXjznBufswB), which is a ridiculous song that C has fished out of her drawer of teenage memories, and which perfectly expresses the way Matthew's got Taron totally tied to him forever. 
> 
> Please, Taron, never break free from his hold. Just keep making excellent films as a part of the Vaughn gang.

It’s always a thrill to get a call from Matthew Vaughn. Both an extremely exciting and truly distressing feeling.

It’s always a surprise, too, because Matthew Vaughn never texts in advance to check if he _can_ call. He just does it. He calls, and God help Taron if he doesn’t pick it up before the third ring.

Which today he has, because his phone was on silent while he was wrapping presents and watching _The Crown_ on the big screen in his living room. It’s a miracle, really, that he glanced at it at all.

“Hello!” he says, flustered, as the call connects. “Sorry, Matt, I—”

“Do you have a minute?” Matthew asks, in the tone of a man who doesn’t really expect to get a negative answer.

“Of course!” Taron replies, gearing up for whatever this will be about. He has a hunch it won’t be about _Tetris_ —they’ve had an extensive brief about that weeks ago. No, this can only be…

“I need you to do a screen test with Roman, ASAP. I’m working on a storyline for _Kingsman_ and he’s the only one who can play the role I have in mind. So, if it doesn’t work out between you, we’re going to have to go in a different direction. When are you free?”

“I mean… Wait, Roman Griffin-Davis, right?” Taron asks, suddenly excited. He’s been hoping this would happen, but he never dared actually believe it. Is Eggsy going to be a _dad_? The mind boggles at the mere thought.

“Indeed. I’ve been in touch with his mum and she says she can arrange something around the 20th. Bit short-notice, I know, but you’ll be busy in the new year and I thought we’d get this sorted before you slap that moustache back on and disappear into the skin of someone else. We’ll do rapid testing for everyone on site, masks aside from actors, and isolate strictly until then, yeah?”

“No problem, I’ve been basically isolated for over a week anyway, except a trip to the shops. And I should be free around then. I’m travelling to Aber on the 22nd, but I’ve not got much going on until then.”

“Good. I’ll get in touch to let you know the exact date and time, then.”

“Gotcha. I’m assuming this will be at Marv?”

“Exactly, as usual.”

There’s one question that Taron desperately wants to ask, now: _is there going to be anybody else there?_ Which obviously translates to: _is there a chance I might get to see Colin in person before the year ends?_

But he doesn’t dare. He doesn’t want to sound too eager, and Matthew _really_ doesn’t need to get even a hint about any of this.

“Oh and Taron? Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Mum’s the word, Matt, don’t worry.”

“Great. See you soon then, Taron. Be good, and bring me Eggsy back, eh?”

“He’s always been ‘ere, bruv,” Taron replies, immediately switching to his well-rehearsed South London accent. Matthew acknowledges that with a chuckle, then bids him goodbye and disconnects the call.

Well. Phew. That was… _something_ , just now. _Don’t tell anyone_ , Matthew just said. And yet, all Taron wants to do, at the moment, is text Colin about this. 

He lies on the couch, puts his phone down on the coffee table beside him, and closes his eyes. He replays the whole thing in his head.

Matthew called.

Screen test for _Kingsman_.

Eggsy’s most likely getting an adorable sidekick—he can’t see a scenario where he and Roman won’t get along. It just doesn’t exist.

The screen test is going to be held in person, in less than a week’s time. And there’s a chance, even if just a meagre one, that Matthew will want someone else there, too. He most likely just wants to keep the secrecy. Very on brand for Matthew Vaughn, that is, wanting to hold all the threads at once. 

_Well_ , Taron reasons as he opens his eyes again, _not today._ Today is the day he’ll transgress. Today’s the day he won’t obey Matthew’s command.

 _Guess what_ , he texts Colin, breaking yet another one of his self-imposed rules—let Colin text him, always, never be the initiator. Honestly fuck that too, really.

 ** _What?_** Colin replies, within less than a minute. Wow, it seems like he’s getting more responsive… eager, even? The way Taron’s heart leaps at that idea might be something worth reflecting on, later.

_I have a screen test with Matt for Kingsman next week._

**_I see. Very interesting._ **

_Isn’t it just? And it’s a secret one, apparently. I’m definitely not allowed to be talking to you about it. Promise you won’t tell anyone?_

**_That’s very naughty of you, Taron._ **

**_But I do, I promise. On one condition._ **

_Shoot_

**_You need to promise you won’t tell anyone about mine._ **

Oh. Damn, okay.

 _Cross my heart, Col_ , he replies, trying and failing to keep his cool.

_Do you have a date yet?_

**_No, he just said ‘around the 20th’. Something about that talented young fellow from Jojo Rabbit?_ **

Taron stops breathing for a few moments. Fucking hell, he was right. This isn’t a one-on-one thing: Matt wants Colin for the screen test too. _Fuck._

_Yes, same here. Why does he always have to do this? The secrecy? I hate it._

**_So do I, but you know the man. Puppet master through and through._ **

_I guess, yeah_

_But hey, Col? Does this mean…_ Taron types, and then deletes it as soon as another text from Colin comes in.

**_I’ll be looking forward to seeing you in a few days, then._ **

_Me too. Massively looking forward to it_

**_Call tonight? 9?_ **

_You bet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah. So. Watch this space. 👀
> 
> And now for your daily dose of Taron references: we probably all know the fantastic BAFTA Cymru interview that Taron did last year, but if you don't, [here it is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ESipZXzai8). You will find the Vaughn anecdote we used as inspo for this phone call starting from minute 26:00. Taron has a superpower, everyone. And it's not doing a _perfect_ Matthew Vaughn impression. ❤
> 
> Coming up: Taron gets a gift with some history.
> 
> We love you, stay safe,
> 
> S & C xx


	17. Bernie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taron never got a pen for his graduation—his present was a sweet NT gig with Rory Kinnear and Julie Walters, and it was more than enough, really. But this, right now, at this very point in his life: this means something. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Remember when a chicken farmer in Lincolnshire sent his lyrics to DJM at the end of the 1960's and changed the music world forever?
> 
> Yeah. We definitely do, too.
> 
> Here, listen to [this](https://open.spotify.com/track/4W2cHubtlOdF2BGCeWjw1r?si=YS62k_YMQ72Q9LR7W0l87Q). And then go back to track 1, and listen to the entire album. ❤

_Love the video, sir. Utterly charming._

He’s finally remembered to watch Robbie’s new video, several days late but no matter, it’s still having what he assumes was the intended effect on him. He’s full of Christmas feelings, full of gratitude toward Robbie for such a lovely, silly, heartfelt song—and yes, really feeling that Billy Mack no-fucks-given yuletide optimism. Gary may have flawlessly fulfilled the brief for a cheesy Christmas single, but Robbie’s really just plucked at his heartstrings with this one. He clicks on the live performance on Ross next, and actually laughs out loud watching Robbie cut a rug like the handsome fool he is, shaking his butt under the falling flakes of fake snow. 

**_Eyyyyy you liked it, huh?_ **

_Yes!! Thank you, it’s just what I needed today_

**_That’s the idea, son_ **

_Billy fucking Mack_

**_LOL should have dropped me keks_** ❤️😉

Someone knocks on the door to his flat then, just as he’s done with breakfast. He opens it to barely catch a glimpse of the bright red and yellow and red jacket of the DHL person heading down the hall, and then turns to the package on his doormat. It’s small, but heavy. 

Intrigued, he shuts the door behind himself and goes to sit in his favourite armchair to open it. Nelly is curled up on the carpet in front of him, and seems, as usual, completely unfazed.

She’s wrong to be so blasé, really, because the delivery turns out to be something out of the ordinary. It’s a present, Taron realises as soon as he carefully opens the cardboard box containing a Christmas card and another, rectangular velvet box. Instinctively, he goes for the card—he has no idea who this is from, and he’d very much like to know. Except, once it’s out of the envelope, he can see the Post-It note stuck on the front, telling him to ‘open the present first!!!’, so he does.

In the box, which looks new, he finds something clearly _not_ new, although arguably good as. It’s a shiny silver fountain pen, which he guesses probably was looking quite battered until someone expertly cleaned it and polished it. He turns it in his hands, unscrews the cap. It’s a beautiful thing: the kind of gift one would get after graduating, maybe. Taron never got a pen for his graduation—his present was a sweet NT gig with Rory Kinnear and Julie Walters, and it was more than enough, really. But this, right now, at this very point in his life: this means something. 

His assessment is confirmed when he looks at the top of the cap and sees initials engraved in it, and the initials are “B.T.”. He’s confused for five seconds; then, it clicks. And he instantly wells up. And he picks up the card again, and opens it, and—

_Dear Taron,_

_I hope you are keeping safe and well, and that you’re surrounded by love and positive energy. It’s what you deserve, always._

_Here is a little keepsake for you. It’s mine, I found it in a drawer and got it fixed up for you. I can’t quite remember what I wrote with it, but I remember a sort of weird superstition I’d developed about it, around ‘74 or ‘75: I couldn’t write without it. I misplaced it for a week, back then, and I almost told Elton I’d quit. Thankfully, he ended up finding it, and told me (rightfully) that I was an arse for even thinking of leaving him. And then he left on a cruise with Cynthia and Julian Lennon, would you believe._

_I’ve always meant to give it to him, but now I think you’re the one who deserves it._

_Write stories with it. Write songs. Write down terrible jokes and dark thoughts, when you get them. Get romantic. Stain your fingers with the ink. Insist, get frustrated, tear out pages, and then start again. Sign checks and contracts that’ll shape your future._

_Write your story, Taron: I know it’ll be a wonderful one._

_Merry Christmas, my friend._

_With all my love,_

_B.T._

_P.S.: Do me a favour. Hide away a couple of those Montblanc goodies and give them to a young up-and-comer in fifty years or so, alright? Good man. X_

The post-scriptum has Taron chuckling through his tears. Bernie Taupin would do that: give him something priceless that carries infinite meaning (both for him and, if Taron’s understood correctly, for Taron, as well), making him so emotional he can’t contain himself, and then still manage to crack him up.

After composing himself, blowing his nose, and mentally planning on what to say in an email/message/phone call to Bernie, he picks up the pen again, with all the case this time, and notices something peeking from the lining of the top of the box. He pulls it out carefully and finds it’s a yellowing piece of newspaper. It’s a clipping from forever ago, it looks like, and it announces that ‘Elton John’s wondrous ninth album is out, and available in all record shops right now’. A small picture is attached: it’s the cover of _Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy_.

It really is surreal, being Taron Egerton. Some days he doesn’t even realise, but it’s times like these that remind him of just how fucking ludicrous his little old life has been for a couple of years, and probably will be forever. Elton John gave him something priceless, two years ago, and now Bernie Taupin just gifted him the pen he used to write lyrics that originated one of Taron’s favourite albums of all time. There’s one song in particular in there, he recalls, which is all about that: _Writing_. About how maddening the process is, but how rewarding it is to ultimately come up with good stuff—even if it’s just one line amongst a pile of crumpled-up pieces of paper.

He sits down, then, and he does just that: he gets a notebook, and starts writing. He writes to Bernie, and it’s hard to find the right words to express exactly what he’s feeling. He changes tactics, then, trying to sink inside Elton’s mind like he was so used to doing two years ago. He imagines reading those lyrics for the first time, that bunch of words that meant so much—but only to him and Bernie, at the time. Elton set them to music, and shared their story with the whole world. This pen did all this? He should be able to write a heartfelt thank-you note to one of the greatest men he’s ever known with it, surely. However long it takes.

By the time he’s done, he’s written three A4 sheets worth of words. There’s ink spots more or less everywhere, because he hasn’t actually used a fountain pen since primary school, but the words are there: a letter to Bernie, Bernie Taupin, who changed the world with his lyrics and Taron’s life with his kindness, guidance, and unconditional admiration and love. 

Taron briefly considers picking out some nice letter paper and rewriting it, making it look clean and proper, but he quickly decides against it. He knows Bernie will appreciate seeing what the process looked like.

He chucks it in an envelope, writes Bernie’s Santa Barbara address on it, and sets it on the desk next to him, looking at it and bursting with pride. Then, he sets out to write another letter, one that’s long overdue and that has never happened, mostly because it’s so much easier to simply pick up the phone. But Taron needs this. He needs to say thank you, the right way.

_Dear Jamie_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This "gifting a pen" thing may or may not be based on real life events.
> 
> Because we love you, [here is the exact moment in _Me_](https://open.spotify.com/track/3QDI0v7aOmyt6OAjVP0PzU?si=8Kd1oaPnR8mZJg_MYSZEYg) where Elton talks about that cruise with Cynthia and Julian Lennon, during which he wrote _Captain Fantastic_ and had to keep it all in mind, because he had no way to record the music. And then he obviously did, because he's a fucking genius.
> 
> This one meant a lot to us.
> 
> Coming up: Taron's not the only Welshman with incredible thighs.
> 
> See you tomorrow,
> 
> S & C xx
> 
> P.S.: here's [Robbie doing Billy Mack](https://youtu.be/0_b0036z2dY). You're welcome ❤️


	18. Luke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Taron’s body does something, just then. An actual, physical response to… Well, to all _that_. Thick thighs, possibly the tiniest speedo ever made (tragically black, not betraying any kind of shape underneath, dammit), sun-kissed shoulders, abs, obliques, Jesus fuck, can’t Luke have mercy on a poor, touch-starved lad?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's thirst time baybeeeee 💦💦💦
> 
> Our [our song of the day](https://open.spotify.com/track/2hmHlBM0kPBm17Y7nVIW9f?si=vd82nDHxQL2QoioFbKwqKQ) is definitely not about masturbation. Honest to God.

Friday greets Taron with sunshine, for once, but also with cold. Like, _bitter_ cold. Like, -5°C cold. Like, he can’t keep his balcony door open for more than five minutes to change the stale air of his bedroom, because he sleeps without pants and he’s worried his dick will freeze off.

In this spirit, he busts out the rainbow cashmere smoking jacket that he was #gifted last year—what a lucky boy—and throws it over the ridiculous T-shirt he’s been wearing to bed since it arrived in the mail a few days ago. The note read “ ** _Taron - enjoy the shite shirt! -RR._** ” He can’t very well be seen publicly with a huge American flag and the words “Aviation - AMERICAN GIN” plastered across his chest, but he laughs every time he sees it, so it’s in constant rotation. He pads to the kitchen to give Nelly her breakfast and make some porridge for himself, letting loose a jaw-cracking yawn as he goes.

He’s got BBC News on for exactly thirty seconds before turning the TV off with a big, out-loud “nope”, and promptly turns to social media for, hopefully, some brain-dead updates on his favourite brands and celebrities.

He sits through two and a half minutes of Gary Barlow in a red jumper and bobble hat, being cranky about Zoom and singing about the lingering dread he still to this day attaches to Mr Blobby, after the terrifying creature stole Take That’s Christmas number 1 spot at the last minute, like 25 years ago or something. He laughs his ass off, then reflects on what this actually is: Gary is effectively trying to outdo Robbie’s Christmas song about life in 2020. Not only has he fulfilled the original Billy Mack brief. He’s doing _more_.

He thinks about texting Gary to comment on this, but hesitates… and then decides on another tack.

 _He’s coming for you with this parody track!_

**_He’s just flirting with Bublé. Leave him alone, poor man ;)_ **

_But is he going to Mr Blobby you??_

**_If he takes his trousers off, maybe… that’d be worth it_ **

_Not keen on the idea of Mr Blobby in the nude_

**_Oi don’t kink shame me._ **

**_Tell Gaz you liked this one_** 👍

So he gathers his courage and cold texts Gary Barlow.

_Loved the Christmas song, sir._

**_The new one, I assume you mean!!_ **

_Yes! Very funny_

**_Well, we do try. Got a bit jealous of someone else getting all the laughs, and decided to channel that energy!!_ **

_You know he worships you, don’t you?_ Taron types it, deletes it, then types it again, but Gary’s next text comes in first.

**_Loved Robbie’s song so much, had to try one of my own. He’s always known how to put a smile on people’s faces, that one._ **

Taron actually gets a bit misty at that, and sends Gary back a heart. It’s so strange, being on friendly terms with these two pop legends, and then thinking about Bernie and Elton in comparison. Taron sometimes wishes he had a partner like that, or just someone off of whom to bounce his art. Maybe that’s Dexter? Who knows. 

After a while, he moves on, back to Instagram. He watches a couple of Hugh and Ryan’s stories, more Feud antics that make him genuinely smile. He double taps on some home interiors #inspo posts, thinking he should really hire someone to make this place look like a mature 30-year-old’s pad and not like Eggsy’s bedroom, which is the look he’s currently going for (give or take a Golden Globe statuette). And then, scrolling down even more, he lands on something he hasn’t had the pleasure to look at in a while.

Luke Evans has just posted some sponcon, a Jaguar gig, driving on ice, very cool. But this isn’t the kind of content he usually posts, so Taron clicks on his profile to check it out, since it’s been a while. Sure enough, he’s right: the second pic on Luke’s grid shows him half-naked and gorgeously tanned, standing on a beach and holding a watermelon.

And Taron’s body does something, just then. An actual, physical response to… Well, to all _that_. Thick thighs, possibly the tiniest speedo ever made (tragically black, not betraying any kind of shape underneath, dammit), sun-kissed shoulders, abs, obliques, Jesus fuck, can’t Luke have mercy on a poor, touch-starved lad?

But maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing, Taron reasons, while he makes the conscious choice to drop a comment under Luke’s pic, that says something along the lines of _Annoying. Thought we’d all agreed to skip on #summerbod2020_ , which gets hearted by a plethora of fans, including the likes of Sam Smith, Antoni Porowski, and— _well_. Hello, Craig. Gods, he really should text Craig.

True to form (and to a couple of exchanges they’ve had in the past), Luke replies to Taron’s comment only five minutes later, and Taron almost chokes on his orange juice.

**_I don’t recall you showing your summer bod, Taron. Bet it wasn’t all that bad ;)_ **

Without thinking, and definitely trying to ignore the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that usually means he’s getting hard, he types out a DM.

_Give us six months, mate. Lockdown is hard, been on the mince pies for a while ;)_

**_Hey, gorgeous_ **

**_I’m sure you’re just being modest. Besides, you’re hot in any shape._ **

_Oh, stop it_ , Taron replies, feeling awkward sitting on his breakfast stool as he’s effectively feeling his arousal mount. He gets up, throws his cashmere jacket on a chair, and settles on the couch.

**_I’m not even exaggerating. Rafa agrees, btw ;)_ **

**_He was flicking through GQ Italy the other day and I caught him getting a bit transfixed while looking at you in your fancy Montblanc gear…_ **

What follows is a series of rather shameless mutual compliments, that somehow get racier and racier— _much_ racier than Taron would have imagined a conversation with Luke would ever, ever get. He’s a colleague, and Welshman for goodness sake. The unexpected way it escalates is part of what makes it hot, and he gives up on not touching himself when Luke starts complimenting his butt, and telling him in a not-so-veiled fashion that he wouldn’t say no to seeing it in something even more revealing than Taron’s usual skinny jeans—which means Luke thinks about how Taron’s jeans fit… which Taron chooses to interpret as Luke telling him he’d very much like to see how his _dick_ would fit inside Taron, and which Taron would absolutely, utterly, completely consent to. In half a heartbeat, probably.

He closes his eyes and imagines that happening. In his vision, he’s at a beach house, lying on a chaise longue. The sea roars only a few yards away, there’s salt on his skin and the Australian sun turns his skin golden. And then there’s Luke, standing in front of him looking exactly how he looked in that pic, powerful and manly and like he could pick Taron up and manhandle him at his leisure—and Taron would let him, he’d let himself be pushed around a bit, or maybe carried on the scorching hot sand, or maybe lain on some cool silk sheets. And he’d get on his knees, too. He’d let Luke fuck his mouth and pull his hair. He’d bend over and let Luke take him from behind while his boyfriend watches. 

_Oh_ , how he wishes life was simpler, sometimes. If he didn’t have to work, if he was nothing but a pretty face that caught older men’s eyes, if the world wasn’t in the middle a global pandemic, he could just do it, he could fly to Australia and hang out with Luke and Rafa, have sex, let loose, and then do it all over again. 

Then again, he reasons, if he really _was_ that pretty face without a name, Colin Firth wouldn’t be a mere phone call away.

The thought of Colin floods his system with a new wave of chemicals. It’s like his brain and body both snap into a whole different level of arousal. And then he considers it, for a second. Just calling, out of the blue, without checking first, and without waiting for Colin to give his consent. Calling while already moaning, needy and desperate, in the middle of pulling one off thinking of having Colin’s hands on him, Colin’s mouth on his, Colin’s cock buried deep inside him. Actually telling Colin all that, word for word, half-hoping to catch him at an inappropriate moment, when he’s not alone and can’t talk freely. Telling Colin how much he needs it, how much he needs _him_ , his kindness, his attentions, his words of praise and his surprisingly filthy mouth, fuck, he—

He comes, hard and quick and loud, with a hand around himself and a finger just lightly pressed against his entrance, just enough to make himself imagine how it’d feel like, to actually be on the cusp of getting that from Colin. It’s wonderful, best he’s felt in days, and he doesn’t want the feeling to stop: he retires to his bedroom, shucks his stupid T-shirt off, and spends some quality time with himself.

*

A few hours and possibly three showers later, Taron’s phone buzzes on the washing machine as he’s unloading it. He immediately catches a glimpse of the caller ID, and his stomach does a somersault. He drops everything he’s holding, takes a deep breath, and takes the call.

“Wotcher, Matt,” he greets Matthew Vaughn, trying to sound as movie-star-cool as he can. As if.

“Hello, Taron,” Matthew says, coolly, in the voice of someone who definitely thinks it shouldn’t be his job to call his lead actor personally, but who is too much of a control freak to delegate something as ‘top-secret’ as this to a common assistant. “Just calling to confirm the screen test next Monday, 2 PM.”

Shit. Of course. Somehow, the whole creative bender he went on yesterday after receiving Bernie’s present took his mind off—

“Course, I’ll be there. Looking forward to it!”

“Me t—Oh, fuck’s sake. Hold on a second, please, Taron.” Taron hears a noise, likely Matthew’s hand covering the mic, and his muffled voice cry out. “Yeah? Yeah, babe, it is Taron on the phone, why?”

Taron chuckles. He thinks he knows what’s happening.

He’s right, of course, and he ends up spending another ten minutes on the line with Claudia fucking Schiffer, who wants to know _everything_ about his dog and his new place and oh my _God_ has Matt asked for his address yet, because they _absolutely_ need to send him a housewarming present, darling.

When he hangs up, he keeps riding the glitzy showbiz wave for exactly thirty seconds, before stopping dead and counting the days—one, two, three—that separate him from Monday, a screen test with Roman for Matthew Vaughn, and, of course…

 _Did Matt call you?_ , he texts Colin, as soon as his brain is functioning properly again.

**_Presently._ **

_Monday, then?_

**_Indeed, Monday._ **

God, this is really happening.

 _Are you_ , he starts typing, but then deletes it as another text comes in.

**_Will you do something for me?_ **

_Anything_

He fully means it, and that feels amazing and just faintly alarming. Mostly amazing.

**_I’d like the next time we talk to be in person._ **

**_Think you can refrain from calling for a few days? Just texting. When you absolutely can’t help yourself, I mean._ **

Taron thinks about that.

 _Yes, sir._ 😉

**_Good lad._ **

Alright, so that might have constituted some kind of role play. His mind races forward to next year, or whenever they start actually filming the next Kingsman. Complicated, yep, and not in a bad way at all. It’s doing his head in a little bit, actually, and if he hadn’t already come multiple times today already, it would probably be affecting more than his head.

_I assume I’ll be rewarded for consistently good behaviour?_

**_A Christmas present, I should think. Something practical. Useful._ **

_Pair of socks maybe?_

**_I may be able to come up with something better than that._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so. Yep. Once again, watch this space 👀  
> We hope everyone is familiar with Taron's thirsty comments on Luke Evans's posts. If not, you can find one instance [here](https://i2.wp.com/www.towleroad.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/11/cake_evans.jpg?fit=1200%2C798&ssl=1), and the other [here](https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G2Sc8TuATSw/XYI5xnDeNkI/AAAAAAAD6QI/YLFbdqEE5LMLt8gIUDDBsTzQBYgeL9TXACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/LUKE%2BEVANS%2BTARON%2BEGERTON.png).  
> Also yes, [Luke's boyfriend](https://www.instagram.com/rafaolarra/?hl=en) is like. Really, really hot. 
> 
> We know you're all curious to know how the Barlow/Williams Christmas song battle has been elevated yet again, and we would urge you to check out [Gary's song that came out yesterday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2WDSx9y9f0s) and that we hurriedly _had to_ write in this chapter, because it's too fucking funny. They're returning cameos for something, these two. _Frodsham's answer to Canada's answer to Frank Sinatra_ has done it again. 🎅🏻🎙
> 
> Coming up: more Feud antics, and Taron has a discussion about facial hair.
> 
> See ya tomorrow,
> 
> S & C xx


	19. Pedro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_I don’t recall ever giving my consent to this_** , Pedro Pascal DMs Taron after Taron drops yet another Instagram post where his new, in-character moustache is front and centre of the shot. 
> 
> **_You’re stealing my look_**  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! It's a silly one today. [Our song of the day](https://open.spotify.com/track/2HFmuz3VMVnA3QmtNdn1Ij?si=wyUw3QJOT1SBF-aj3Q70sg) is a testament to that.
> 
> (We personally _adore_ the [the moustache](https://www.instagram.com/p/CIsJgWyFbSe/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link). It's such a fucking look on Taron.)

**_I don’t recall ever giving my consent to this_** , Pedro Pascal DMs Taron after Taron drops yet another Instagram post where his new, in-character moustache is front and centre of the shot. 

**_You’re stealing my look_ **

Taron chuckles as he types, _I stole it entirely! Judging by the WW promos, the facial hair looks to be gone_

**_Oh, my straight-to-VHS movie set in the 80’s you mean_ **

**_Yeah, sad times, they made me shave everything off_ **

_Crimes_

**_I know right?_ **

_Don’t you worry Pedrito, the lip fuzz is fake and I’m not planning on growing a real one after I’m done. You’ll always be my favourite moustachioed asshole <3 _

**_I don’t know if you’re talking about Agent Whiskey or me right now, but I’ll take it either way_ **

**_How’re you doing, by the way?_ **

**_I keep seeing your face pop up here and there, mustache or no. Looks like you and James are having fun_ **

_It’s been mad, honestly_

_Fucking ridiculous. Never been more caffeinated in my entire life_

**_Sad I don’t know either of them well enough, I would gladly have helped someone out (to get free beverages)_ **

**_But maybe it’s for the best- I actually really like Aviation Gin_ **

_I’m going to pretend I haven’t seen this, so we can keep on being friends_

Then, he types out _I actually quite like it too, don’t tell anyone_ , but immediately erases it: he can’t know whether Pedro might just be bluffing, and actually be working with the enemy. 

**_Seen what? ;)_ ** Pedro replies, and Taron notices a message has disappeared. The incriminating one, of course. Wow, Pedro is smoother than Taron remembered.

**_But seriously, y’all are almost there, right? When does it end? Who’s winning? Who do I call to get free coffee and booze?_ **

_It’s one or the other, mate, sorry_ , Taron lies.

_It’s over tomorrow: James has something BIG in store for tonight_

**_Fuck I hope it’s another Star Force. Can’t get enough of those_ **

_Oh God, me neither_ , Taron replies, totally meaning it. James’s low budget homemade version of Star Trek is one of the most hilarious things to come out of lockdown madness. 

_Can’t confirm nor deny, really. I’ve signed NDAs_

_The only thing I can say is that Sam Heughan was as outraged as him at the mere idea of American gin…_

**_Bunch of snobs <3 _ **

_We’ll take it, thanks Pedro <3 _

Later that day, Taron’s sitting on his couch, Nelly in his lap, watching _The Prestige_ on telly, and sipping on a light drink. He and James have agreed on this: Taron would stick on a Jackman movie, make a G&T, frame the drink next to Hugh’s face, and put it in an IG story with a witty caption.

Taron’s contribution ends up being a selfie, himself sitting below the telly and glancing lovingly up at Hugh, glass clutched in his hands, Nelly accidentally in the frame. The caption is _Movie night with my favourite_ ; there’s a little arrow pointing at his drink and another bit of text leading to it: _this contains gin that isn’t shite_. 

(It’s made with Aviation Gin, of course, because he likes being a brat—in secret, Hugh still doesn’t know and never will—paired with raspberries and mediterranean tonic, and it’s divine.)

Ten minutes after posting it, he gets a notification: James reposted it to his own story, adding a few GIFs of Scottish flags. He’s also tagged Taron in a post, the latest installment of _Star Force_ , which sees James, Taron and Sam Heughan scouting the galaxy to find an antidote to save one of their crew members—once again, Caitriona Balfe has somehow agreed to put on that ridiculous Russian accent—who accidentally drank Aviation Gin.

It’s great, all of it, and the feedback from fans is hilarious and overwhelming. They most definitely have this in the bag, no doubt about it.

Among the sea of hearts he sees on Instagram, he sees a DM from Charlie.

**_Omg have you seen this_ **

Attached is the trailer for Colin’s latest movie, which apparently comes out next year. It looks to be a heartbreaking love story, where Stanley Tucci (who plays Colin’s husband) has dementia, and Taron can’t watch it all without tearing up.

_Fucking hell, are they not done with #buryyourgays yet?_

**_God, I know_ **

**_But have you seeeeeen him?_ **

**_ps I’ve talked to my therapist and thought about it… I think ‘straight’ is not what I am_ **

_What a weird way to phrase it, mate_

_But hey, WELCOME, glad to have you with us_

**_I expect my team jersey within the week, youth large plz_ **

_Sure, I’ll pop into GAP Kids tomorrow_

They chat back and forth for a while, until Charlie says he’s maxed out for the day and bids him goodnight. And Taron remains there, alone with his thoughts, an empty glass in front of him and the picture of Colin in a grey cardigan, striking salt-and-pepper hair and beard, playing gay for the cameras once again. And he thinks about it a tad too long, maybe, because he gets to fantasising. He envisions a scenario where Colin shows up to the screen test looking exactly like that—scruffy, mature and absolutely breathtaking—and he gets so hard, so quickly, it’s actually silly. And he knows, he _knows_ he shouldn’t. But Colin said he could, if he ‘absolutely couldn’t help himself’. And in this precise moment he’s legitimately a bit desperate.

_Your beard, Col. Do you still have it, or have you shaved it off?_

Colin’s reply comes ten mere seconds later. Maybe Colin’s also a bit desperate, despite his self-imposed no-call rule? Maybe he’s also sitting on his couch, hard and half-tipsy on Scotch or gin, thinking of Taron?

**_Haven’t shaved. Yet._ **

**_I was thinking about it. Why?_ **

_No reason, just curious_ , Taron replies, feeling his cheeks flush at the evasion. 

**_Are you sure? You know you can tell me. I appreciate it when you tell me._ **

_I really, really, really like your beard._

**_Do you, now?_ **

_Yeah, I do. It makes you look… I don’t even know, it’s just such a fucking look on you_

**_Do you not want me to shave, then?_ **

_If possible?_

**_Only if you ask me._ **

_Please, can you keep the beard? For me?_ Taron types out, biting his lip and holding his breath. He wonders if Colin knows what this does to him. 

**_Of course I can. Can you keep yours?_ **

Taron audibly scoffs, alone in his flat. _What, my rubbish stubble?_

**_Just don’t shave. I like it on you._ **

Fine. He probably does know, then. And he also knows that Taron would do anything he’d ask.

_Alright, I’ll be at my most rugged and unshaven._

**_Counting the days, dear._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT. So. Getting quite hot in here, isn't it? 
> 
> As usual, a few links for you:  
> \- [Star Force](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aqJeR4ZRX0Q). Please, watch it. It's amazing, hilarious, clever, and everything that's good. And James's inner Jean-Luc Picard fanboy is really showing.  
> \- [The trailer for Pedro's new high budget, straight-to-VHS movie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XW2E2Fnh52w), for evidence of lack of facial hair.  
> \- And finally [the trailer for _Supernova_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70Bt5pIxLPw), which neither of us has managed to sit through without welling up--so, good luck.
> 
> Coming up: the Feud is over, and Taron has an outfit dilemma.
> 
> See you tomorrow!
> 
> S & C xx


	20. Ryan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, say to my face that my gin is _shite_ , you adorable Welsh teddy bear. C’mon, I can take it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we don't actually know who won the Feud yet, but if the Gin Gods don't send a sign down to Mr. Reynolds, we're just going to assume that Jackman has this one in the bag. [Our song of the day](https://open.spotify.com/track/4zXa17K83Pp6N2yXdVc2sv?si=sc9ryLA8SCyQ7jhU23ptYA) is once again very silly--as is this entire Feud palaver, to be fair. 
> 
> Bless these fellas for entertaining us during trying times. We love them to the moon and back.

“Taron!” Ryan Reynolds’s grinning face greets him from his phone screen, as soon as he picks up the FaceTime call. Ryan seems to be another straight-to-FaceTime guy. He and Hugh are more similar than they’d like to let on.

“Alright, Reynolds?”

“Hey, say to my face that my gin is _shite_ , you adorable Welsh teddy bear. C’mon, I can take it.”

Taron bites his lip and considers his options. He hates being disingenuous, but this is too fun.

“It’s…” he pauses, glances at the bottle of Aviation still on his counter from the drink he made last night. “It’s actually really good, mate.”

“Oh my _God_ I fucking knew it. You liar!” Ryan cackles, then gets deadly serious. “You know, if you defect to my side next year it’s not only a major coup for me, it’s also a ticket to free gin _and_ Jackman will up the ante trying to seduce you back. You could play us both, back and forth like a double agent, getting more and more free shit while we raise money for charity in the background.”

“You’ve really got me figured out.”

“I see how you work. Your motivations are clear.” Ryan smiles then, genuine. “Ok for serious though, seriously, seriously, thank you. It went so well. You guys were awesome, the whole thing was perfect. Thank you.”

Taron grins. “Seriously, you’re welcome. It was a delight, kept me busy, helped me maintain my already loose grip on sanity—”

“Ohhh yeah, no, you want to keep it loose, don’t firm up, that’s the secret—”

“—yes, loose, sort of tenuous—”

“—limp, even?” Ryan offers.

“Slippery?” 

“Moist. And... wow, we got there. Cool.” Ryan gives a business-like nod. “Someday if the entire planet hasn’t collapsed, we absolutely need to hang out. Maybe they’ll make you the new Wolverine like all the nerds keep saying, and then we can make out in a dream sequence in _Deadpool 4_.” He cocks a speculative eyebrow at Taron. “I promised Blake I’d pitch that idea. She’s obsessed with you.”

“Makes sense.” Taron winks.

“And now I am too. Huh.” Ryan ponders for a moment, seeming to space out.

Taron finally breaks, laughing. “I didn’t imagine you were actually like this, like, in private.”

Ryan smiles. “Yeah... I kind of can’t stop. It’s super fucking annoying, even to me.” 

“Nah, it’s fine. I like it. It’s endearing.”

“Wow, you’re cool. No wonder Hugh loves you so much. Seriously, let’s not never talk again, alright?”

“It’s a deal.”

“Okay!” Ryan gives him a heartfelt and deadpan thumbs up. “Fucking stay safe, I know things are better over there but still. Thank you again, honestly. And happy holidays!”

“You too mate, happy holidays.”

“Oh my god, ‘ _mate_ ’, stop it.” And then Ryan grins and hangs up.

*

Later on, after not thinking about it for approximately eighteen hours, Taron is hit square in the face with the realisation that the secret rendezvous with Matt, Roman and Colin is _tomorrow_ , and that he hasn’t thought of what to wear.

He opens his closet and stares at it, racks and racks of expensive shit that he’s been given over the years—a pair of tuxedos that are, tragically, too painful to look at but that he just hasn’t found the heart to get rid of (one is grey and velvet, one is charcoal and beaded), a plethora of short-sleeved shirts that remind him of a summer that now feels more of a fever dream than reality, skinny jeans, shirts, and... Jesus shit, he needs to hire someone to organise this absolute mess. But hey, is this the suede jacket he used to love? Fancy seeing it here, thought he’d lost it during the move. It’s the one Gareth got him for the Robin Hood press tour. It’s the same one that he got for—

Ah, bloody hell. Another piece of clothing he never wants to wear again. Fuck, and he really loves clothes.

He shakes it off, looks into the closet some more, and finally, after discarding the umpteenth breezy striped vest that looks like something he and Bleddyn wore a thousand years ago at a house party, he admits defeat. There. He’s a 31-year-old man who can’t dress himself. With a closet full of relationship trauma. He rolls his eyes at himself; no wonder he’s been avoiding coming in here.

Now. This can go one way or the other, and he well knows that one is way riskier and, dare he say it? More or less off-limits, these days. But he’s in such a _mood_ these days, and he has to try it anyway.

_Hey, Col_

**_Evening, Taron. How are you tonight?_ **

How is he? Nervous. Jittery. Excited. Aroused. Incredulous that this is happening at all.

_Splendid. You?_

**_I’m very well, thank you._ **

_Can I ask you something important?_

**_Anything, dear._ **

_What should I wear tomorrow?_

Taron sees dots appear and disappear. Once, twice, three times. Colin never usually is this hesitant, and somehow this knowledge has him smiling big and biting his lower lip. Did he possibly just _get_ Colin, with that question?

**_Surprise me._ **

Oh, fucking hell. Taron rolls his eyes at the unhelpfulness.

**_You know it’s not the clothes I like, but the man inside them._ **

Right. Right, of course. Of course he’d say something like this—shoot to kill, every single time. Christ.

Taron lets himself fall on his bed and tries not to let the enormity of this entire thing overwhelm him. He picks his phone back up, and tries another tack.

_Gotcha. Something that’s easy to take off, then?_

No response comes for one, two, five, ten, fifteen minutes, and Taron is almost allowing himself to panic, when he thinks of his contingency plan. And, to be fair, this is the path he should have taken from the very beginning, if he hadn’t wanted to be clever and try this mildly kinky palaver with Colin. Jesus.

 _Hey mate! I hope you’re well. You up for a quick call? I desperately need your expertise_ , he texts Gareth Scourfield, stylist extraordinaire and the man who quite literally saved Taron’s life on multiple occasions.

And Gareth, bless his big Welsh heart, calls him. No questions asked, and straight to FaceTime. (Taron doesn’t pay him well enough.)

After the usual catching up and chit-chat about families and work, Gareth finally asks him what the emergency is.

“I… Um…” Okay, time to come up with some bullshit. Think, Taron. Think. “I have a date, tomorrow!” he exclaims, triumphant. “Socially distanced, of course. Getting coffee with someone.”

Gareth smirks. “Outside, I presume?”

Oh, right. Sure, yes. Outside. “Yes, of course. But I’d—I’d feel more comfortable knowing I look alright underneath the coat, too,” he adds, very proud of himself for where this is going. “You know, I haven’t worn anything but trackie bottoms and t-shirts for months. Gareth, I think I don’t know how to dress myself anymore. Help. Me.”

Taron’s histrionics have Gareth chuckling benevolently. Bingo.

“Alright, alright, gotcha. Don’t worry, I’m here.” He looks pensive for a second. “Okay, flip that camera and show me what you got, then.”

Taron does, giving Gareth the same tour of his closet and secretly blushing in shame at how messy it is.

“Have you tried a vest with a short-sleeve patterned button-down?” Gareth says, sounding pretty serious.

Taron flips the camera to face himself once again, and gives him a confused raised eyebrow.

Gareth slaps a palm on his forehead. “Silly me, that's my out-of-office automatic reply! Hope this email finds you well. Please wear the nearest aloha shirt and low-cut vest, thank you.”

Taron bursts into laughter at Gareth’s self-awareness: the man did put him in a ridiculous amount of those shirt-and-vest combos in the summer of 2019. That Fever Dream _Rocketman_ summer, that is. 

From there, they banter on for a while longer, reminiscing of happier days, but then Gareth gets them back on track and works his magic. He picks out a pair of dark grey jeans, a plain, off-white t-shirt that costs a lot more than a plain, off-white t-shirt should cost, and a cable-knit jumper, deep navy, Scottish Merino wool, that was buried so deep in Taron’s closet he’d almost forgotten about it. Taron cannot believe he’s worn it so little: the colour is gorgeous, it’s soft as heck, and it’s, well… It’s easy to take off.

He thinks of that again just as he’s closing the call with Gareth, because he sees a message notification, and his heart starts beating madly in his chest, his thumb hovering quite dramatically for a couple of seconds before opening it.

**_That would be ideal, yes._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIGHT. 
> 
> Some fun imagery for you, in case you need a refresher for those iconic Taron looks we've mentioned near the end:
> 
> \- [The matching striped vests](https://64.media.tumblr.com/1bf2c62f84f390f38d8bc4fd5d0f434d/8b15dbb1aa5b5930-87/s1280x1920/f767fd5cd931ac8c951e59ede6107cb716b9606e.jpg) (Taron + Bleddyn 4ever)  
> \- The "painful suits": [velvet](https://www.esquire.com/style/mens-fashion/a27499278/taron-egerton-rocketman-cannes-gala-jacket-tom-ford/), and [beaded](https://www.wmagazine.com/story/taron-egerton-met-gala-2019-red-carpet-rocketman-interview/)  
> \- [The Breezy Baby Look(TM)](https://its-a-soft-science.tumblr.com/post/626142802831720448/tarons-breezy-baby-looks-have-been-on-my-mind) that Gareth is so fond of creating
> 
> Coming up: well. You all know what's coming. See you tomorrow for the big day.
> 
> Love,
> 
> S & C xx


	21. Tom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, Col. Long time, eh?” he says, trying to ignore his heart beating in his ears. Colin’s wearing this charcoal grey jumper that sets off the dark steel in his hair, and he’s just… he’s handsome as hell. There’s no other way to say it.
> 
> Colin’s half grin turns into a full one. He adjusts his thick-rimmed specs further up his nose. “Good to see you, Taron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is [this one](https://open.spotify.com/track/6OPOa3qlKoDUzGpS8MrcLi?si=_taxEpHKT0CDEM7PYnW5Sg), because... well, we'll let you figure out why.
> 
> Okay, please enjoy this chapter with special guest star Tom Hardy!

It’s screen test day, and Taron is stuck in traffic. Typical.

An hour and forty-five minutes ago, while he was having coffee, he briefly considered the Central Line: hop in the Tube at White City, get off at Tottenham Court Road, walk five-odd minutes, and be at Marv with some time to spare. Except, despite being terribly convenient, the Central Line is arguably a bad idea on any day of the year. And especially at Christmas during, you know, a global pandemic.

Which is how he’s found himself sitting in his Range, with his bum hot from the seat heater that’s permanently on, Robbie’s Christmas album on the stereo, and millions of butterflies in his stomach at the idea of “auditioning” for Matthew once more (every time feels like the first, really) and, most of all, seeing Colin in person for the first time in fuck knows how long. It’s as exciting as it is absolutely terrifying.

So, every time he’s at a halt, he sneaks a quick peek at his phone. Ten minutes ago, he posted an adorable pic of Nelly looking at the neighbours’ cat, who wandered onto Taron’s balcony yesterday afternoon. (It was a tense and intensely cute moment. There was a staring contest. The cat, a giant white and grey Siberian that looked more like a miniature lynx than a house pet, definitely won.) He refreshes to check comments, and he sees one from a man he hasn’t thought about in a long time. Tom Hardy has just dropped a _nice dog, mate_ _xx_ under Taron’s post.

God, the attention that little sweetheart has gotten him. Taron shakes his head. He’d had no idea she’d be such a… well okay, a _dude magnet_ , might be the only term for it. Even the quiet, bespectacled fellow who works for the hip little pet boarding place in Taron’s neighborhood had looked at Nelly during their kerbside drop off earlier today… then looked at Taron, then back at the dog, and remarked “Well aren’t you two a picture” with a seriously cocked eyebrow. 

He drops a heart on Tom’s message, then tucks his phone away and concentrates on driving. Normally he might even be a bit flustered thinking about his astonishingly handsome, gravelly-voiced colleague from back in the day. But there are far more important things on his mind at present.

*

Late, late, late. He’s _late_. 

He rushes through reception, winking at the quite ridiculously good-looking bloke sitting behind the desk after he gives Taron the direction for the room where the screen test is being held, and proceeds to snake through corridors at a discreet fast-walking pace.

He knocks at the door of room 4C, and Matthew’s glacial voice tells him to enter. 

It’s a lot, seeing all these people again. Matthew, the man who made him. Roman, whom Taron hasn’t seen since the BAFTAs back in February, and who’s gotten _tall_ in the meantime; 2020 certainly hasn’t stopped him growing, fucking hell. And then, of course, Colin. Colin, his imposing figure, his slightly dishevelled-looking hair (which Taron knows is something Colin’s done on purpose, somehow), and that beard, fuck, the one he’s kept on because _Taron_ asked—

“Taron!” Roman exclaims, from the corner of the room, as soon as Taron’s in.

“Hey Roman!” Taron greets back, wanting nothing more than to hug the boy, but catching himself before he actually goes in for it. “Matt. Sorry, traffic was a _state_ ,” he apologises, working with his eyebrows and the entirety of his soft boy charm to ingratiate himself with the boss.

He turns to Colin last. Their eyes meet directly for the first time since he’s entered the room, and there’s a second, there, a short moment during which Taron forgets why he’s been stressing out about today. Colin is looking at him the way he’s always looked at him—happy, fond, benevolent, and that thing he’s always suspected was there, but that he’d never recognised for what it really was. One could call it lust, desire, _longing_ , Taron supposes. And he hopes his own eyes are communicating the same, as he gives Colin his most dazzling smile and a nod of the head.

“Alright, Col. Long time, eh?” he says, trying to ignore his heart beating in his ears. Colin’s wearing this charcoal grey jumper that sets off the dark steel in his hair, and he’s just… he’s handsome as hell. There’s no other way to say it.

Colin’s half grin turns into a full one. He adjusts his thick-rimmed specs further up his nose. “Good to see you, Taron.”

“Alright, gentlemen, we good here? Shall we begin?” Matthew asks, clapping his hands, business-like, and shattering the brief magic moment. He turns towards the door and raises his voice. “Yeah, Janet, please let ‘em in. Thanks, love.”

A small, no, radically minimalist crew files in and finishes arranging some lighting, now that Taron’s joined the other actors. They’re mic’ed up in no time, and Matthew starts talking as they finish setting up.

“Great. Now that we’re all here, a quick word about safety. Everyone's rapid testing was in order—well done—but we're still taking additional precautions. If you're not on camera, I want universal masking. Don't fuck around, please, or you'll be leaving.” He turns to face Taron, Roman and Colin and points a finger at the floor under their feet. “You three gentlemen, we've blocked out some two-metre lines for you to help you distance, and I know you've all been quarantined this past week. Any questions about the set-up?”

Taron and Roman shake their heads, and Colin answers for them all. 

“I believe we’re ready when you are.” 

*

The scene’s almost over, and Taron cannot _believe_ how good this has gone so far.

“He’s too fu—” Taron turns to face Roman, as the script instructs; Eggsy’s suddenly aware of his filthy mouth when a kid’s around, it seems. Roman looks up at him, defiant, and then Taron turns to Colin again. “He’s too young, Harry. Can’t bloody believe _I’m_ the one making this point? Aren’t you supposed to be the sensible one?”

“He’s ready, Eggsy,” Colin replies, Harry’s hard mask back on, and it’s so familiar and so _good_ to see Harry again, fuck. “We’ve both witnessed what he did in that theatre, last week. I don’t know where he learnt to do all that, but the hard fact remains that he saved three hundred people from a certain death.”

Taron opens his mouth to retort, then closes it. He fixes Colin with a hard, reproachful look. This isn’t in the script, but he knows Eggsy’s little quirks better than his own by now, so he can definitely improvise and make it work. Like a fucking charm. “That don’t mean he’s ready to go through trials! He’s thirteen years old, and my own _fucking_ kid,” he stresses the swear word, this time, laying the South London drawl on very thick. “I’m not ‘aving ‘im risk his life like that. It’s just not happenin’, Harry.” Even if they’re two metres away, Taron feels small next to Colin: he’s embodying the original power imbalance between Eggsy and Harry just by existing in his 6’2” space, fucking hell. 

Colin’s gaze is piercing. His serious-actor-face is intense. The unmistakable energy between them is impossibly thick. Fuck. _Focus_.

“With all due respect, Eggsy,” Colin delivers, giving him an unreadable expression, “I believe this isn’t your call, nor is it mine.” He turns to Roman and flashes a charming, benevolent smile. “What say you, Liam? Do you think you might be ready?”

Roman’s darkened, angry face flips in the blink of an eye. He beams up at Colin, grins, nods, and delivers his line: “You bet.”

“Alright, we’re done!” Matthew shouts, and immediately the small crew rushes around to move away lighting and mics. Taron, Roman and Colin stand in place and put their masks back on. The electricity between them is palpable, exciting, wonderful. Everyone’s eyes are smiling. Colin’s glasses are just a tad misty with condensation, but Taron can _feel_ that gaze on him, reading him, grounding him. He gets lost in those eyes, for a bit, because he can.

“Okay!” Matthew says, closer now and sounding genuinely elated. And Taron cannot believe his eyes. Matthew Vaughn is… beaming? Taron recalls seeing him this happy exactly twice before: the first time was when Take That came to visit the set of _Kingsman_ 1 for their music video, and the second when Elton John showed up for _Kingsman_ 2, fresh out of hair and make up, wearing his sparkly tracksuit and a big smile. “Amazing job, everyone. Roman: brilliant stuff, mate. Really, really great,” he says, turning to face the boy, who looks like he’s about to cry from happiness. He keeps looking between Matthew and Taron, as if trying to establish whether this is real life, bless. “And of course, well done to you too, gentlemen.”

Taron can feel Colin’s eyes on him, and he knows he’s about to self-combust, so he tries something, to defuse the pent-up tension inside him. He fakes wiping sweat off his brow, then gives Matthew a big smile from behind his mask. He dear God hopes it more or less shows.

“Phew. You not giving us the sack, then? We were so worried—weren’t we, Col?”

Colin chuckles benevolently, movie-star-cool-like. “Indeed we were. This is a big relief, thanks, Matt.”

“No, not quite yet. Although, you never know,” Matthew says, fake-pensive.

“I’ll make sure this one behaves,” Colin immediately steps in, before Taron can ask what Matthew means. “Don’t worry, Matt.”

And Taron freezes for a second, and spaces out a wee bit. Colin can’t just _say_ things like these.

He thinks about those words as they’re all saying goodbye. He thinks about them as he excuses himself to go use the loo. He thinks about them as he’s drying his hands and looking at himself in the mirror—he looks quite good, considering how wrecked he feels. And then, finally, he thinks about them as he’s stepping outside the bathroom and a hand grabs him by the elbow, pulling him into a nearby room.

It’s dimly lit, but he can see who’s stealing him away. Pulling him by the arm like this _is_ that kind of movie, and then his back is against a closed door and Colin is standing in front of him. He’s close, so close. Closer than Taron’s ever been to literally anyone in _months_ , in fact. And the look on his face—

Colin looks like he wants to say something. Like he’s looking, deep inside himself, for something clever, eloquent, charming to say to Taron, and coming up short. It’s on the tip of his tongue, and it’s not good enough. The tips of his fingers are delicately curled in the cables of Taron’s jumper, but Taron knows he won’t try anything else until prompted. Until Taron lets him know that this is okay. Which, you know. It is. It really, really is. 

Taron smiles as he takes a step forward and stands on his tiptoes to kiss Colin. Colin, the wonderful man who taught him so much and for whom he’d do quite literally anything. He realises the latter just as his fingers are sinking in Colin’s soft hair and stroking the prickly, long beard he’s sporting: he would. He would do anything for Colin, if Colin asked. 

Kissing Colin Firth is as magical as Taron had always imagined. It’s perfect, like the movies. It’s incredible, in fact. Colin’s hands are in all the right places, cupping Taron’s face and the side of his neck, clutched on Taron’s waist, lingering over the curve of his butt, tentative and exploring. He doesn’t deepen the kiss at first, but Taron does, earning himself a _lovely_ muffled moan and a satisfied and equally muffled chuckle.

That’s apparently all it takes to get Colin’s dominance back in place, because Taron’s back is suddenly against the door once more, and Colin’s hand is fully cupping a buttcheek. He’s pressing into Taron as they kiss, and Taron can tell—maybe, perhaps, okay _definitely_ —that he’s hard. Or getting there, anyways.

Breathless, they part. When they do, Colin’s forehead is still pressed against Taron’s, one of his hands is cupping Taron’s face, and the other has settled at his waist. Colin looks… Fuck. He looks all kissed-out and rather mussed up, doesn’t he. His hair alone is a work of art, really. And this is all _Taron’s_ doing. The mind boggles for a second: he’s just been snogging recently-divorced Academy Award winner Colin Firth in a darkened room at Marv Studios, their director probably yards away on the other side of the door, and if he thinks about it for too long his brain will start to glitch a bit, he knows. It’s too forbidden, too risky, too _good_ to be true. Fuck.

“Christ, Taron, you…” Colin trails off and looks down at Taron as if he were the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. “You’re…”

Taron laughs softly and kisses him again, marvelling at how _he’s_ the element rendering a notoriously eloquent and classically trained actor effectively speechless. It’s just not a power he thought he possessed—but he apparently does, and it’s exhilarating. He runs both hands over Colin’s chest, (feeling for those impressive pecs which, yes, still seem to be thriving) and skimming down his abdomen, fingers blindly reaching for his belt buckle. Taron isn’t quite sure of what he’s doing, to be fair. He doesn’t know how far this can go, but he knows he’ll definitely regret it if he doesn’t at least try.

Sure enough, Colin grabs hold of both of his wrists and gently moves Taron’s hands away.

“No, we— Fuck. We really can’t, not here…”

“I know, sorry—”

“Oh, but you’re so _fucking_ lovely, aren’t you,” Colin breathes, his hands still wrapped around Taron’s wrists, pressing them and the rest of Taron’s body against the door and trapping him. 

Taron has to close his eyes and ground himself for a second. This, too, seems to be actually happening in real life. This, too, isn’t just a product of his overactive horny lockdown imagination. Colin really is pinning him against a door, swearing like a sailor—and why is that especially hot, again? Asking for a friend.

“Please, Col, I wanna touch you,” he hears himself say, words escaping his mouth before he can refrain from speaking them.

Colin grins and takes a step closer. He leans in and plants a delicate kiss just underneath Taron’s earlobe, sending a powerful shiver down his spine. Has he ever wanted anyone like this? A question for the ages.

“I’d like to get you to a bed,” Colin whispers, so close to Taron’s ear, his hot breath and his tone and the words he’s saying triggering some kind of ASMR deep within Taron. “Get these clothes off…” he trails off again, one hand freeing Taron’s right wrist and slipping underneath Taron’s jumper and t-shirt, touching his naked abdomen. “I see you’ve kept your promise. This does look easy to remove.”

“We could… ah, _fuck_ —” Taron tries and miserably fails, as Colin bites his earlobe and his hand under Taron’s shirt tilts, the tips of his fingers now turned downward, only barely past the waistband of Taron’s boxers but enough to make him lose his train of thought completely. 

“No,” Colin replies, sighing. “I’m afraid we can’t. Not here.” He’s still kissing along Taron’s jawline though, light and teasing. “It’s too risky, someone could walk in at any moment.”

Which is part of why it’s so _hot_ , but Taron doesn’t say that out loud. He wants to, but he doesn’t. It might stop Colin kissing him. “I know but… I want you,” he says instead, settling for ‘desperate’ instead of ‘sexually adventurous’, because he very much feels the former, right now, and not quite the latter. Colin’s right, but he… He just _wants_. So much.

Colin moves to kiss his lips once more, passionate and lingering, then tragically pulls his hand back from where it was just barely skimming into Taron’s pants. He caresses Taron’s cheek with the back of his other hand and smiles sweetly down at him. “We’ll work something out. I promise.”

Despite himself, Taron nods in assent. A giant chunk of him wants to stomp his feet and protest the sheer injustice of the lack of privacy. Another wants to grab a piece of furniture, chuck it in front of the door to block it shut, and have his wicked way with Colin right here and now, Matthew bloody Vaughn and his flock of PAs be damned. But it’s the meek side of him that prevails, somehow; the side that only men like Colin can bring out. 

(Well. There are no men like Colin, Taron supposes. But if this month has taught him anything, it’s that there is quite a long list of men who will instantly make him switch from bratty to docile, from cocky to submissive.) 

He really likes it, this. _Behaving_. He likes how it makes him feel, and he _loves_ the look on Colin’s face when he realises what’s going on.

“We will,” Taron agrees. “To be fair, this is already quite the surprise.”

“Good surprise, I hope?” Colin asks, raising an eyebrow.

Taron scoffs and pulls on Colin’s shirt collar to steal another kiss. “Yes, good surprise,” he echoes, lips inches away from meeting again. “You like me kissing your arse, don’t you, Col,” he adds, with a grin and a wink.

“Well, quite,” Colin chuckles, unflappable as ever. “Must admit I haven’t had much attention lately, and certainly not from strapping young fellows such as yourself.”

“You poor, neglected old man. Thank God I’m ‘ere, then, eh?”

“Watch it,” Colin replies, kissing him again. “But also, yes.”

“Hey,” Taron says, touching Colin’s jawline and tilting his head slightly, so their eyes meet.

“Hey.”

“I want you.”

“I know. Me too.” Colin pauses for a beat, pensive-looking. Then, he grins and takes a step back. Taron takes the hint and, even if it’s the last thing he wants to do, he steps away from the door. 

“Happy Christmas, Taron,” Colin whispers, taking Taron’s hand in his and placing a soft kiss on his knuckles. And then he’s gracefully stepping past Taron, opening the door and moving into the hallway. It’s over, Taron realizes. He tries to hang on, tries not to tumble into the sadness he knows lies on the other side of this encounter. He smiles at Colin.

“Happy Christmas,” he says softly, hating how his voice travels up at the end in a plaintive way. Colin’s still smiling back, and doesn’t look very sad at all. 

“See you soon, I hope.” 

And Colin turns and walks away. 

Taron stays there, making himself look down at the floor, at the wall, anything not to watch Colin leave. 

It’s no good trying not to be disappointed. It hurts. 

It was amazing, he can still feel Colin’s lips on his, and it still hurts. This fucking year. Everything terrible and good and terrible again in turns, so fast it knocks the wind out of him. It feels like he’s waited an eternity for this, but in actuality it was less than a week. Or was it six years? And now it’s over in less than five minutes. He feels around in his pocket for his mask and hooks it over his ears, trying and failing not to let out a miserable sigh as he does so.

He’ll call Colin tonight. It’ll be alright, they can talk more, they can—

His phone buzzes. 

**_Check your back pocket, please._ **

He stares at Colin’s text for a moment. Then reaches back (he can still almost feel Colin’s hand, groping him in a way that was miles from polite) and fishes in the pocket of his jeans. There’s something there.

A key card. _Hazlitt’s 1718_ , says the stately script on one side. His phone buzzes again.

**_This is your Christmas present. I felt foolish wrapping it up, so I thought I’d surprise you this way. I felt terrible leaving you looking so forlorn though. Worried I’d miscalculated._ **

Taron’s brain spins. Hazlitt’s, it’s familiar. He’s putting the pieces together, but it’s taking too long.

**_6 Frith St, just south of the gardens. no parking I’m afraid._ **

Then a [ google maps link](https://www.google.com/maps/place/Hazlitt's/@51.5143782,-0.1318538,15z/data=!4m8!3m7!1s0x0:0x945c1f2f03bac995!5m2!4m1!1i2!8m2!3d51.5143782!4d-0.1318538).

**_Maybe wait a while, talk to someone at Marv for a minute? Not too long, though, please. I’ll be in Jonathan Swift, upstairs._ **

Taron blinks, takes a deep breath. His eyes might be welling up, maybe. He’s definitely not sad anymore. Soho Square Gardens is literally five minutes walk from here.

_Be there in 30 minutes. You absolute fucking champion._

**_Thank god. You’re happy?_ **

Taron gasps a quiet little laugh, and then types while he walks down the hall.

_I’ll show you how happy in 29 and a half minutes._

*

The hotel is ridiculously perfect. It looks like it was designed by Colin, especially for Taron. A short row of Georgian houses, renovated together into a collection of quietly gorgeous, impeccably-styled spaces that make Taron feel immediately comfortable and absolutely besotted with Colin for doing this.

He sanitizes his hands at the entrance, then flashes his key card and gives a polite, masked nod to the concierge seated in the entry. Then nods again at the hefty, orange and white cat sitting near the stairs. 

“Can you _fucking_ believe this?” he whispers softly, leaning down to offer an ear scratch. Clearly the cat is no stranger to romantic gestures. He seems unimpressed by Taron’s circumstances, but gamely accepts the rub behind the ears while sniffing in derision at the lingering scent of hand sanitizer.

Taron tries his best not to actually _bound_ up the steps. 

_I’m upstairs. Awaiting further directions?_

**_Turn left, end of the hall._ **

There’s lettering on the door. _Jonathan Swift_. Taron almost knocks... then gets out his key card again and opens the door.

He steps in and takes off his mask, and there’s Colin, visible through the panes of a french door-style room divider. He turns, just shutting off the sink and drying his hands, sees Taron and lets the towel drop.

“That was fast,” he says softly, and then he’s striding across the room as Taron lets the door latch shut behind him. 

“I was in a hurry—” and then he can’t say more, because Colin’s taking his face in both hands and kissing him. 

It’s like déjà vu, but the best kind. Reparative. Pressed against another door, Colin’s hands on the sides of his face, breathing him in, but this time they don’t have to stop. He breaks the kiss to laugh—he’s too happy to know what to say, but he wants Colin to understand.

“I…” he rests his forehead against Colin’s. “I don’t know.”

“You’re here.”

“How did you... _When_ did you plan this?” And then he kisses Colin again, even though he truly is wildly curious to know the answer. It’s just that he didn’t get a chance to fully appreciate the beard before, and now it’s rubbing against his chin, catching against his own stubble, and making him weak.

They break apart again, and Colin runs the pad of his thumb over Taron’s moistened bottom lip.

“I just wanted something good for us. And then you gave me the idea, really.” He closes his eyes. “We were texting, yesterday. You said that damn… that thing, about your clothes.”

Taron remembers immediately. “Right then?”

Colin nods, and fixes him with a look that pins him to the door. “I’m fairly certain you don’t actually understand what this does to me.” He swallows. “What _you_ do to me.” And then he steps in closer, actually crowding Taron against the door to the suite. “It was very difficult getting here. Not giving in and doing something foolish back at the studios. The way you asked for it…” He interrupts himself, a hand coming down to rest on the left side of Taron’s chest. He looks lost in thought, overwhelmed. Taron has never seen him like this. “I was close to trying something there, if you’d begged any more.”

Taron flushes, remembering the tone of his own voice. His words. Fuck, he really did beg for it, didn’t he. And he could have—

“But then you were so _good_.” The emphasis sends a shiver down Taron’s spine. “And I thought it was impossible to want you more than I already did but…” He inches closer, whispering in Taron’s ear again, lips and beard grazing the skin of his earlobe. “…here we are, I guess.”

It doesn’t really hurt when Colin bites softly on the side of his neck, but Taron still whines rather loudly and dramatically. Worst (or maybe best?) thing is, he’s not even performing. It’s just release, he realises: it’s months and months of _ennui_ , of being touch-starved and lonely, of craving someone’s physical closeness and attention. It’s also, once again, six-odd years of on-and-off pining for this specific someone, and not realising they’d been pining for him just as hard. To be here, now. It doesn’t quite feel real.

But it is, it really, _really_ is, because now Colin’s kissing him again, harder, and he’s got a hand on the small of his back, guiding him away from the door and further into the room, expertly walking backwards without hitting any of the potential obstacles while they go through the narrow corridor, entwined. Taron can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop kissing Colin, touching him everywhere he can reach.

Colin’s the same, it seems. His hands roam everywhere, even as he steers Taron back into the room with him he’s touching his arms and chest, obviously appreciating. They stop then, near the bed, and Taron reaches up to gently ease Colin’s glasses off. 

“Here.” His voice almost cracks, and he folds them and hands them to Colin with a little smile.

“Thanks,” Colin says, sweetly.

Taron raises an eyebrow. “You’ll still be able to see me, yeah?”

“You little horror.” Colin smiles back. “Yes, I can see without them.” He turns away to set the glasses on the bureau, and Taron really takes in their surroundings.

The room is, frankly, gorgeous. A book-lined wall across from a tiled fireplace, the elegant four poster bed with crisp white linens, large windows framed by blue damask curtains. Antiques everywhere, beautiful, quiet and elegant. It feels like a set, cozy and luxurious at the same time. 

“I can’t believe you got us this place.” Taron beams, taking Colin’s hand in his. “This is absurd.” 

Colin rolls his eyes. “It’s a hotel room.” He leans in to kiss Taron again.

“It’s perfect.” Taron grins, giddy. “I am massively excited for you to fuck me in this amazing hotel room.” As soon it leaves his mouth, he realizes exactly what he’s said. He… hasn’t actually expressed this precise sort of sentiment to Colin up until now. Not so graphically, anyway. They’ve always talked about what they were doing in the moment, never really discussed their ambitions, as it were.

“Oh,” Colin says. “I see.” His face is placid but there’s a sparkle in his eyes, as though he’s on the verge of laughing. “That’s very romantic, Taron.”

Taron squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m incredibly smooth, shhh.” And then he can hear Colin breathing soft puffs of laughter through his nose. “Stop it, I just told you my _dream,_ I know it’s very amusing—”

Colin’s hands come up to frame his face. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, I’m just—”

“Alright well it sounds like you’re laughing—”

“I’m happy. I’m really happy that you’re this excited about the room.” 

Taron looks up at him then, sees the sincerity and fondness in Colin’s face, and rolls his eyes grudgingly. “I am stupidly excited.”

“Not stupid.”

As he runs fingertips along the edge of Taron’s jaw, Colin’s face takes on a longing sort of look. He pulls Taron in for another scorching kiss, and at first it’s the same as the rest, so good and full of desire and devotion that it makes Taron’s nerves sing. Then Colin pulls back just fractionally, brushing his parted lips across the skin just below Taron’s mouth. He strokes at Taron’s jaw with his thumb, and his breathing shifts and grows a bit rougher. 

It tumbles then, Taron realizes what must be going on. He tests his theory by nuzzling his jaw against Colin’s, bumping playfully at him and creating a little extra friction. Colin huffs some very pleased laughter against Taron’s skin, and draws him in for another kiss. Emboldened, Taron takes one of Colin’s hands and guides it down his torso, skimming across the flat planes of his chest in the process. Colin’s hand slows, lingering there and tracing the contour of his muscles.

“You can tell, can’t you.” Colin smiles, almost shyly. “I suppose it’s obvious, just logically.”

“How long since—” 

Colin laughs softly. “If I tell you what year it was the last time I had sex with a man, you’ll be undeniably confronted with the stark difference in our ages.” He squints, looking off in the distance while he does the math. “It’s… oh dear. What year were you born?”

Taron widens his eyes. “You’re kidding.” And then slowly grins, self-conscious and wicked at the same time. “I don’t know why I love this so much.”

Colin snorts. “I can think of at least two likely reasons.” He glances toward the bed, then back at Taron. “I’d like to undress you.” 

Taron’s eyes widen, then he raises an eyebrow. “Yep. The fact that you just say these things out loud is one of the reasons. No-one talks like this, Col.”

Colin chuckles for a second, but then seems to catch himself and goes serious. “I think you’ll find I do, when I’m with you.” His voice drops to almost a whisper. “You irresistible, gorgeous man. Have I mentioned I’m crazy about you?”

And that makes Taron blush, still, somehow. How genuine Colin sounds when he compliments him. How Taron completely, fully believes every word he’s saying, and how deeply they both seem to be affected by the entire thing. It’s been a long time coming, to be fair. Slowly simmering in the back of his mind, even if he’s only just recognised it recently. Not that raw, instantaneous electricity he’s felt before. That’s how everything was for the (brief) duration of his last relationship; thunder and lightning, rowing boat in a thunderstorm, uncertainty everywhere he turned, and no idea whether either of them would manage to come out of it unscathed. (Only one did, and it obviously wasn’t Taron.)

But this, now. This is just _good_. It feels solid. He trusts it.

“I’m crazy about you too,” Taron replies, smoothing both hands over Colin’s soft cashmere jumper, faintly feeling his frantic heartbeat. “And by the way—you may. Undress me, I mean.”

Colin nods and starts gently pulling at Taron’s jumper with both hands, raising it upwards alongside the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath. Taron smiles up at him and compliantly moves both his arms to facilitate the removal of his top; Colin tugs it swiftly over his head, but somehow doesn’t immediately toss it away. It’s just there, bunched up around his wrists, Colin’s hand blocking it between his hands, trapping him. He looks down at Taron’s naked middle and Taron can see it again, the wonderment on his face—and maybe a bit of incredulousness, too. He wonders if maybe it comes from taking someone’s clothes off and not seeing a bra, breasts, or any kind of female shape. 

His suspicions are confirmed when Colin bends in to plant a soft kiss on his sternum, then continues south, nuzzling Taron’s sparse chest hair and cupping a pec with his free hand while the other is still holding Taron’s wrists in place. He can’t move his hands, can’t touch, and he so desperately wants to _touch_. He must say so, at some point, because he hears and feels Colin chuckle against his skin and bite him a little. 

“Later. Let me, first. I want to take you in—all of you. Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, closing his lips around one of Taron’s nipples and teasing it with the tip of his tongue. It only takes a moment for the heat of it to get Taron even harder and more eager, if possible (he really didn’t think it would be) and drags a shameless moan out of him. Colin kisses all over his chest and abs, whispering appreciatively as he does so, until he’s so low he can’t hold onto the jumper around Taron’s wrists anymore. He lowers himself to the floor, kneeling to gazes up at Taron, his face open and sweet.

Taron feels—well, he feels _seen,_ for the first time in a very long while. It’s both wonderful and quite scary, and it probably shows on his face, fuck, because Colin is looking quizzically up at him as he kisses just above Taron’s belt buckle.

“What is it?” he asks, quizzical.

“Nothing, just—” Taron interrupts himself to free his hands from his top, throwing it somewhere to his left. “Just _you_ ,” he finishes, as his fingers thread through Colin’s untrimmed hair, tousled and perfect.

“Yes.” Colin nods. “I know. I can’t quite believe it either.”

They look at each other for a short while, comfortable silence settling between them. Colin on his knees, Taron standing half naked and petting his hair, because apparently this is what he’s getting for Christmas this year. This is the amount of good karma he seems to have accumulated, during the course of 2020. (Is this because he raised money for local charities back in April? Or maybe that time he read _Grumpycorn_? Whatever it was—thank fuck he did it.)

And then, in an instant, Colin’s back on his feet and holding Taron tight as they kiss again, deep, hot and searching. Taron toes off his shoes and kicks them away, and then he’s an inch lower, even shorter now compared to Colin. 

“Can I?” He trails his hands down Colin’s chest, and tugs at the hem of his jumper. Colin nods, then tuts when Taron takes his time playing with the edge and skating fingers across the skin beneath. 

“Here,” Colin mutters, and pulls it over his head in one brisk movement, then shucks off the shirt underneath and tosses them away. He smiles, eyes downcast. “Now this is a challenging aspect of,” and he pauses, “ _seniority_.” He huffs a bit of a laugh and lets the back of his knuckles trail down Taron’s stomach, bumping to a gentle halt at his belt. “It’s a good thing I’m not vain, or I might have a difficult time with the inevitable comparisons to be made between our physiques.”

“Stop it.” Taron reaches out to touch Colin, smoothing a hand over firm abs and then up through the hair dusting the center of his chest. “You don’t have to act as though you’re not painfully handsome.” He leans in and presses a kiss to Colin’s collarbone. His skin smells warm and clean, and it’s hard for Taron not to just rest his face there. “No one here but me.” He kisses Colin again, and then moves to his neck. Kissing someone this much taller than him is honestly a bit insane. For some reason it’s more intense now that they’ve both shed some clothing. All the bare skin. Colin’s just _bigger_ than him. 

“You don’t—” Colin pauses, drawing a breath as Taron fastens his lips at the join of his neck and shoulder. “Don’t... oh, hell.” And then he gives up talking for a bit. One of his hands drifts to Taron’s hair and cradles the back of his head, while the other roams across Taron’s back. He tilts his head down obligingly to give Taron easier access to his lips, and it’s like another first kiss. Taron moans into it, because he wants to and because he can’t help it. Held against the heat of Colin’s body, it feels like he’s melting and Colin’s frame is all that’s holding him up. He sneaks a hand down between them, grazing across his own hardness and then turning his palm to curve against the swell of Colin’s cock where it strains, insistent against the fabric of his trousers.

“Jesus, Col. Are you serious?”

“What.” Colin sounds amused but almost bothered at the same time, and takes Taron’s mouth again with a possessive kiss. Taron lets himself get, okay, honestly, _dominated_ by Colin’s lips for a while, and keeps his hand where it is. Pressing along the shape of Colin’s cock, feeling it actually swell under his fingers, and marvelling not only at the glorious length of this thing but also Colin’s quiet exasperation. Taron smiles against Colin’s lips as his breathing goes slightly rough. 

“You’re, like, irritated.” 

“And I gather you find that entertaining.” 

“I really like it?” Taron can’t suppress a sigh. “Sorry, I just—”

“It’s alright,” Colin murmurs, between kisses. “It’s fine. How do people usually cope with you? Any advice?” He takes a deep breath and seems to steady himself. “I’m just realizing I don’t know how I’m going to survive this, let alone keep it together for the next,” he sighs, truly frustrated, “five minutes?” And finally, _finally_ he rocks his hips every so slightly to rub his hardness against Taron’s palm. His eyes fall shut for just a moment, before he breathes again and smiles at Taron. “Or should I just resign myself?”

“Yeah.” Taron grins. “Resignation’s fine.”

He knows what he wants, if Colin’s willing to let him have it. Steering Colin by the hips, he sinks to sit on the bed and positions Colin directly in front of him. He’s watching carefully, face turned up toward Colin so he catches the moment when Colin realises what’s going to happen next and his eyes widen for just a split second. Then his face goes absolutely offended, and his hands are at his belt, working smoothly at the buckle. Taron pushes them away.

“Can I? Please.” He blinks up at Colin, and wets his lips. “Let me take it out.” The look Colin gives him is equal parts incredulity and appreciation. 

“You’ve fucking earned it, with that.” Colin shakes his head. “Go ahead.” 

Taron opens Colin’s trousers reverently. “Hello, Tom Ford,” he remarks under his breath, pushing both trousers and the classic black stretch boxers down off Colin’s hips. 

“Shhh.”

“Suppose you get these for free, don’t you,” Taron muses. He glances up, flashing a grin. “Colin?” And then he blinks slowly, for good measure. “Thank you.”

“Oh my God.” Colin looks as though he’s truly going to reprimand him at this point, so Taron turns his attention to the task at hand. Pulling the waistband of Colin’s ridiculously stylish boxers down, he’s hit by a wave of sensory input and feels his heart flip in his chest. 

It’s been such a long time. He can pretend to be a brat, try to turn Colin on with it and make him laugh, it truly is great fun, but this—seeing the beautiful head of Colin’s cock pushing past the band of his boxers, flushed and slick and _real_ —it brings everything onto another level. His lips fall open. 

“Can I?” He asks again, and Colin’s hand comes up to caress the side of his face, and that’s all the answer he needs.

He leans forward to kiss the head while he pushes Colin’s pants further out of the way, and then Colin’s other hand is there, guiding his cock between Taron’s lips with all the care Taron expected. 

“Beautiful,” Colin whispers, his voice strained and his eyes dark with lust, as he thrusts in slowly. “So beautiful.”

Taron closes his eyes for a second and lets the warmth of those words of praise pool everywhere, tiny jolts of electricity trickling down his spine; he opens them again very quickly, however, because he doesn’t want to miss a single microexpression on Colin’s face. It’s all just so fucking mesmerising, the small spasms in his abs and the veins in his forearm popping as he curls a hand further into Taron’s hair, pulling him in, not forceful but still firm and decisive, _perfect_. Taron wonders if this is the result of six years of letting Colin quietly read him and make his own assessments on what he might like, or if Colin is just a genius, period. He suspects the truth lies somewhere in between.

Taron rests a hand on Colin’s side, thumb grazing over his hip bone and fingers curling around the soft skin of the top of his buttock, and he wraps the other around the base of Colin’s cock, pulling it out of his mouth briefly and stroking it as he licks the underside of it, base to tip, and watches as Colin’s head falls backward.

“Christ, Taron, fuck,” he groans, and Taron grins yet again; he can’t help it. It’s intoxicating, pulling Colin apart like this, knowing that it’s not just the blowjob per se that’s making Colin lose it. 

“Yeah?” He asks, letting the head brush against his cheek, then tilting his head and sliding his lips against it for a moment. “Am I doing well?” 

When he catches sight of Colin’s face he sees that incredulity again, but his eyes are brimming with admiration. The spark Taron sees there lights him up inside.

“Really well.” Colin touches his cheek, gently pushes his mouth open a bit. “I—” He lets out a light little sigh. “Shall I tell you what to do?”

“Yeah.” Taron has to adjust himself then. It’s not graceful, but his stupidly tight jeans have become a danger. “Yeah, please.”

“Alright, open up.”

And he does, and then Colin’s pushing in again. The length of him is just this side of intimidating, and Taron breathes deep and steady and summons all his skills. A glance up at Colin tells him that he’s continuing to do _really well_. And then there’s the hot weight of Colin’s cock resting against his tongue, just teasing the back of Taron’s throat but still restrained, controlled. Taron vows to crack that control by the end of the night, and slides down on Colin’s shaft to swallow around him.

The sound that falls from Colin’s mouth clearly started as words. Taron keeps breathing, and he gives Colin a few small, rhythmic bobs of his head just to demonstrate what’s possible. 

“Fuck, Taron—” Colin’s hand falls heavy on the back of his neck, and Taron reaches back and holds his hand over Colin’s, encouraging. Pushing it down, just a bit. He hears Colin’s sharp intake of breath, and then focuses in and relaxes his throat as Colin thrusts in once, measured and perfect. The noise they make together pushes buttons inside Taron, and spurs him on to try to take Colin deeper still. Colin curses softly and thrusts again, with a little less control. Taron gives a series of tiny nods, urging him on… but Colin stops, strokes his cheek and carefully pulls out.

“That,” he breathes out, “was very good. You’re very good at that.” He swipes across Taron’s bottom lip again, just like earlier, and Taron chases after his thumb and nuzzles against it.

“Then let me keep going?”

Colin looks genuinely exasperated. “You _could,_ but then we won’t get to the other things you want.”

And that stops Taron. “Oh,” he nods. “I see.” 

“Yes,” Colin chuckles, shaking his head. “Want to work on that instead?” He’s slightly out of breath but rapidly getting his composure back, and he nods back to the mattress behind where Taron sits. “Get back on the bed, come on.”

Taron does, he can’t help but comply; it’s very difficult, mind, to successfully move backwards on the bed, away from Colin, and have a full view of that gorgeous body, hard and then soft in all the right places, big, imposing, and not to stop and fixate in wonderment. He feels a bit overcome with gratitude, watching Colin tuck himself back in his boxers. This is just going to keep getting better, isn’t it.

There’s no real time to romanticise finally getting Colin to bed, however, because Colin is kneeling on the mattress and bending over to undo Taron’s belt and the buttons in his jeans, trying to yank them off swiftly but visibly finding it difficult to do so, due to their skinny cut and Taron’s, yes, sizeable butt and thighs absolutely getting in the way. This is the curse of having curves.

“Bloody clingy, these things, aren’t they?” Colin chuckles under his breath, his head tilting up and their eyes meeting. “I thought we’d said you should wear something I could take off easily.” 

Taron smiles back. “You like these on me.”

“I like how they look, can’t hide that, but—ah, there we go, that’s better,” Colin continues, satisfied, as he finally manages to get the denim past Taron’s quads and finally off completely. “Always wondered if these were painted on you, or something.”

“Oh shut up, you— _oh_ ,” Taron can’t finish his sentence, however, because Colin is now shifting, pushing Taron’s legs apart and settling between them, big hands splayed over Taron’s thighs, caressing up from his knees to the bottom hem of his boxers, then up to the waistband. He lowers, then, face right against Taron’s abs, nuzzling the trail of curls starting from his navel and looking up at Taron. He’s not smiling, he’s very serious; very seriously lost, more like. Taron feels worshipped in a way he’s never experienced before, and it’s—

Fine, this is the moment he thought would come, more or less the second after he discovered that key card in his bottom pocket. Normally, when he knows there might be even the remotest chance of a sexual encounter, he would, um, _trim_ a bit down there. Now, since he’s a single man in 2020 and this, now, is some kind of surprise manifestation of one of his wet dreams that he would not in a million years have imagined could actually happen, he absolutely hasn’t thought of grooming. In months, actually. And for a second, he panics. Colin’s body hair situation is, of course, flawless. And his, well… isn’t. He should say something.

Approximately three seconds later, after he’s resolved he’s going to apologise for his unkemptness, Colin starts kissing down his lower abdomen, simultaneously pulling down his underwear, not even blinking at the absolute state of his nether regions—so he guesses he’s probably alright, after all.

*

“Oh, please, _fuck_ ,” Taron moans, a bit way too loud for his taste—but also, who gives a damn, Colin Firth is going down on him and he’s just done something incredible with his tongue whilst _also_ pressing his thumb into a spot just underneath the base of Taron’s cock, which just... It’s something he does to himself sometimes, but that no-one else has ever done to him. It’s good enough when he uses this trick to come faster and harder on his own, but having Colin doing it to him is somehow different and better? It’s probably his own incredulousness at the fact that Colin, unprompted, would know to go just there; it’s also the pressure itself, against his perineum, firm and so close to—

Colin moans around his cock, vibrations echoing everywhere in Taron’s groin, and Taron realises he’s this close to losing it. Actually, scratch that: he’s absolutely fucking losing it. Grasping at everything he can reach, one hand fisting the duvet and the other in Colin’s hair, tugging (he hopes) gently. Trying vainly to pull him away, all the while arching his back and tilting his hips toward Colin. The eternal dilemma. 

He just doesn’t _want_ to come, not yet.

“Col, _ah_ _please_ , I’m gonna—”

But Colin’s thumb is still pressing in the same spot, while the tips of two of his fingers are brushing Taron’s entrance, light, teasing, and it’s too much. It overwhelms him before he can finish his sentence, his orgasm rushing up like a waterfall of sparks behind his closed eyes. He wants nothing more than to look at Colin’s face, see what this is doing to him, but his own eyes clamp close and his head falls back on the pillow as he rides it out. He’s definitely pulling Colin’s hair now; he tries to apologise, both for coming so quickly and for maybe hurting Colin, but it’s just incoherent noises coming out of his mouth at the moment, with the occasional half-intelligible “fuck” and “sorry” and “God” thrown in the mix, as his hips jerk upwards and he thrusts deeper into Colin’s mouth. Colin’s free hand braces on his thigh and anchors him, helping him as he rides through it. 

Taron laughs then, hoarse and happy and a bit mad sounding, and he reaches to touch Colin’s face. 

“Hey.” 

Then he can’t help but flop his head back onto the pillow again—it’s the motion of Colin’s tongue against the underside of his cock as he pulls off, while swallowing at the same time. 

“Hey,” Taron tries again, but can’t summon an actual sentence. Maybe if he just... doesn’t actually try to move. He lays still, peering down at Colin to see him wiping the corner of his mouth with the side of his thumb. The look on Colin’s face is amazing, it’s equal parts stunned, self-congratulatory, and hungry.

“Hey,” Colin greets him back. He runs a hand up Taron’s thigh to join of his hip, and leans in to kiss him there. “Good boy.” 

Even in Taron’s wrecked state, the words do something to him. It’s the way Colin offers them, too, like he’s congratulating Taron on coming, for god’s sake. Like his only job is to take what Colin gives him, and he’s done it well.

“Be right back,” Colin whispers, half into yet another kiss on the top of Taron’s thigh. “Just need a second.”

Taron nods, still rather dizzy, and allows himself to rest back against the pillow as he feels Colin’s weight lift off the bed. He covers his face with both hands and chuckles lightly—one of his ‘what the fuck is happening’ moments of which there have been a parade, lately. This time however, the sense of unreality is more intense. He hadn’t come like this in a while, really, so hard he can still feel his extremities tingling minutes after.

He hears the tap run in the small bathroom, then stop. He lifts himself up, resting on his forearms. He’s stark naked, completely exposed, something that would normally make him at least faintly uncomfortable in the presence of someone as undeniably perfect as Colin. But, weirdly, he feels completely at ease. 

Soft steps on the carpet announce Colin’s walking back to the bed. When Taron sees him, his breath goes a little funny for a second: the man is a bloody vision, messy hair he hasn’t bothered to try and fix, naked from the waist up, trousers open, the fucking posh boxers, a sheen of sweat on his brow—or maybe that’s water, Taron can’t be sure from a distance. Either way, he’s drop-dead gorgeous.

“Holy fuck, Col, are you kidding me,” he breathes, before he can think too long about it.

“What?” Colin smiles, leaning in the doorway and running a hand through his hair. There’s a subtle flex in his bicep as he does so that Taron definitely thinks is purposeful.

“You _know_ what,” Taron replies, shaking his head. Colin raises an eyebrow, prompting him to continue. “Oh, yes, that’s right, sorry—you’re claiming not to know, aren’t you? You look very fucking good,” he states, as he beckons Colin closer. Colin obliges, walking up to the bed and coming to kneel on the far end of the mattress. Taron shifts, gets on his knees as well, mirroring his stance, then hooks a hand under the waistband of Colin’s boxers and tugs on them to get him closer. “...for a man of your age, that is,” he finishes, flashing a devilish grin.

Colin smiles back and smooths a hand over Taron’s cheek. “You really are such a little shit, aren’t you.”

“I’ve had that one before, don’t worry,” Taron replies, chuckling and trying to snake a hand further down Colin’s boxers. Colin grabs his wrist, however, and stares down at him, half amused, half stern. “C’mon, I want to see it again.”

Colin smirks and plants a soft kiss on Taron’s lips and then keeps him fixed with a look, waiting for Taron to say something else. Taron debates rolling his eyes for a second, but decides against it—because, to be fair, it is very fucking hot, this whole dynamic. “Please?” he tries, in a hushed tone. Colin nods, strokes his cheek again, and starts to move off the bed once again. Bingo.

There’s definitely some kind of performance, Taron realises, in the way Colin doesn’t just drop his trousers in a heartbeat, but seems to take his sweet time with them, his eyes fixed on Taron the entire time. The boxers are next, and Taron feels his mouth falling open once again at the sight of Colin’s erect cock.

“Is this the real reason you’re a national treasure, then?” Taron says, quickly snapping out of it and looking Colin in the eye. “I never knew. You’re a proper stud.”

“Oh, shut up,” Colin says, wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking it slowly.

“I will, when you come test this mattress with me,” Taron says, cocking an eyebrow.

“I’ve very little interest in the mattress.”

*

It turns out that making out on a luxurious king-size bed with Colin Firth is also something straight out of a movie. It’s soft and sweet and perfect, and there’s also a bit of a fight for dominance that Taron bets would look fucking ace on camera. Except, he reflects, as once again he feels the need to vocalise some kind of appreciation of Colin’s erection pressed against him, dialogue would definitely not make it into the final cut.

“I really, _really_ want you to fuck me,” he whispers, as Colin overpowers him once again, blocking his wrists against the pillow, either side of his head. Colin grins, nods, then leans closer to gently bite on Taron’s collarbone. Taron whines, even if it doesn’t really hurt, and Colin lets out a low, growling kind of noise.

“And I really, really want to fuck you,” Colin replies, punctuating each word with a small kiss on Taron’s chest.

Taron revels in the attention for a while, until a small alarm bell starts ringing in his head and he has to speak up.

“Um. Col?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Do we have any… You know…”

Somehow, even after all the things they’ve just done, the word feels filthy in his mouth. And rather pedestrian, frankly. 

“...lube?” Colin mercifully finishes for him.

Taron nods and blushes. “Yeah.”

“Check the drawer on your left,” Colin says, looking a bit smug.

Taron does, blindly reaching over to grab at anything inside the nightstand because he doesn’t want to stop looking at Colin, and he’s very surprised when his fingers close around a small cylindrical object, which upon inspection is a small glass bottle full of clear liquid.

“Oh my God, Colin. Did this room _come with lube_?”

“Yes, Taron,” Colin deadpans. “18th Century replica lube.” His tone is drier than winter air. “It’s part of the Monday afternoon holiday package.”

Taron flips him off but still grins like a fool while he turns the bottle over in his hands. He looks up at Colin once again, then, waiting for an actual explanation.

“I brought it,” he concedes. “I wanted to make sure we had it, if we needed it.” He’s clearly a bit embarrassed but most definitely unrepentant. 

“Good God,” Taron replies, coming to a sitting position and handing Colin the lube, watching as he dispenses a fair amount into his own hand. “Where the hell have you been all this time?” Colin smiles as he rubs his thumb and fingers together to warm it up. “Look at you, so thoughtful,” Taron adds, just loud enough for Colin to hear. 

Colin gives a sweet but dismissive shrug, clearly done with being complimented and ready to get down to business. He reaches down to nudge Taron’s legs apart, and Taron spreads them eagerly to let Colin’s fingers find their way back. 

He’s never been treated this way before. It’s so… tender? That might be the word. Colin’s got him tucked in close, and their bodies are angled together so that Taron can tilt his head just a bit and easily get a kiss whenever he wants one. He revels in the feeling of Colin’s fingertips gliding over him, teasing at his tight entrance and then pressing just barely, barely inside. 

“Fuck,” he utters, eloquently, than sighs laughter into Colin’s shoulder. “Go ahead, give me one.”

“You sure? I’d hate to rush you.” 

Taron finds Colin’s eyes and holds his gaze. “Please, give me one?”

“Alright.” 

The feeling of someone else pressing into him is enough to make Taron’s eyes fall closed. He angles for a kiss and gets one, and lets his body relax around Colin’s finger. The wash of feeling travels through his whole torso, warm and shivery as Colin slowly, carefully works at him. In moments, he’s already longing for more.

“Another, please?”

Colin obliges, and now there’s a bit of stretch added to the mix that sparks something inside Taron. He starts to be able to imagine what it’ll be like, in the actual future, minutes from now, when Colin’s fucking him with more than just his fingers. 

“More, please.” He tries to sound normal but it’s not working. He can tell because Colin breathes a little puff of laughter against his skin as he draws his fingers slowly out, and then rests fingertips (three fingertips, it’ll have to be three) against Taron’s entrance. 

“Will you tell me how it feels?” There’s the slightest edge of concern in his voice. “I don’t remember…” He’s flustered again, Taron can tell. “Just keep talking, alright?”

Taron sighs. “Don’t worry. This is heaven?” Colin kisses him, and then his fingers start their ingress, careful again but unrelenting. Taron’s mouth falls open against Colin’s, he can’t help it, and a little moan escapes. “So good, Col it’s so good, keep going—” And then he leaves off and just focuses on the feelings, letting his hips rock forward, his still-soft cock rubbing lightly against the inside of Colin’s wrist. It’s overwhelming, and it’s only the start of what’s in store, and the potential of it all is doing Taron’s head in as much as the sensations itself.

Colin strokes inside him then, searching with his fingertips, and with a few tries he’s pressing against what feels like, yes, definitely—

“God, you fucking champion,” Taron whispers in a rush against Colin’s lips, and feels the curve of Colin’s smile answering him. And then Taron lets himself float for a while, Colin’s hand and his mouth anchoring him while he rocks between them.

“Taron,” Colin’s voice is so warm, and rougher now too. He knows what Colin’s probably wondering.

“Yeah, let’s—” Taron kisses him once more, then breathes deep as Colin slowly draws his fingers out. “I’m ready, you’ve got me ready now.”

“Good.”

Colin’s looking at him with such a wild mixture of desire and awe, Taron feels odd for just staring back but he can’t help it, and Colin doesn’t seem to mind the scrutiny anyway. 

“And…” Colin blinks, collecting himself. “Would you like to use protection?” 

“Not unless you want to. I’m fine, tested I mean, and I haven’t. Well, it’s been since... last year?” Unnecessarily, stupidly, he blushes.

“Alright, no need then.” Colin smiles. “That’s sorted.” He rises from the bed then, and his departing warmth makes Taron feel shockingly needy. It must show on his face.

“Won’t be a moment, I promise.” And he’s true to his word, slipping away to the bathroom for only a minute. Taron hears the toilet flush, sink running, the flick of the light switch, and his body thrums with readiness. Colin, so measured and thoughtful and gorgeously restrained. 

An idea forms.

“Get back here,” he says, as soon as Colin reappears. He crawls towards the end of the bed and lifts up on his knees to catch Colin’s lips as soon as he gets close enough, simultaneously wrapping a hand around Colin’s cock and stroking it mindlessly. “I’d really like this inside me, please,” he whispers, holding Colin’s gaze, inches away from another kiss.

Colin nods, his hips purposefully coming forward to fuck into Taron’s fist. “How—”

“I’ve got a feeling you might like me on top?” Taron suggests, as nonchalantly as he can.

*

“Oh my— _f_ _uck_ ,” Taron swears, throwing his head back and letting out a little nervous laugh. Colin’s grip on his hips tightens a bit, and Taron can somehow feel his concern.

“Are you…”

“Fine, I’m— _fuck_ ,” Taron breathes, sinking down a little more, “it’s _wonderful_ , but—”

“Does… does it hurt?”

“No, it’s just—” he meets Colin’s eyes again as he sits up a bit taller and moves his hips the tiniest bit. “I’m not used to—” He registers the look on Colin’s face and has to shut up for a second. He doesn’t recall anyone else _ever_ looking at him like that. “It’s been a while, and you’re… well you’re _big_ , aren’t you.”

Colin actually fucking blushes, at that, and it’s as adorable as it is ridiculously attractive.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Colin says, one hand coming up to stroke Taron’s cheek. “Let’s take it slow. You set the pace, alright?” He places a soft kiss on the corner of Taron’s mouth and smiles against his skin.

Taron chuckles, relishing in the friction of his own stubble rubbing against Colin’s beard, then rolls his hips and sits further down on Colin’s cock, his mouth falling open in delight as he realises he’s more open than he thought, and that this going to be easy, after all. He sinks all the way down, then, his bum flush against Colin’s thighs, then rests his forehead against Colin’s and grins mischievously.

“Make me do all the work, why don’t you, old man.”

“Are you sure,” Colin replies, interrupting himself to inhale sharply and thrust up a bit, effectively cutting Taron’s breath, “that this is how you want to play it?”

“If this is the reward,” Taron says, lacing his hands behind Colin’s nape and sinking the tips of his fingers into Colin’s hair, “then definitely, yes.” He lifts up again, feeling the drag of Colin’s cock inside him, and lets out an involuntary little noise. 

Colin grins as he guides Taron up, still gripping at his hips. His hands shift when Taron sinks back down, skimming lower to the side of Taron’s thighs first, then his buttocks. Colin’s hands are big and warm, perfect, like the rest of him, and Taron can’t help but think that it would be marvellous if Colin could just—

“Oh my _God_ ,” he lets out, after Colin lands a firm slap on his right cheek.

Colin chuckles breathlessly. “Thought you might enjoy that.”

“Yeah, well I— _fuck_ , yes, right there,” Taron cuts himself off as Colin rolls his hips and the tip of the cock inside him rubs against his prostate. “I’m a simple lad, aren’t I.”

“Not the word I’d choose,” Colin replies, guiding him up and down once more, grunting against Taron’s chest as he presses a wet kiss near his left nipple. Taron instinctively looks down at him, and finds Colin looking back up, blissful. “Try ‘wonderful’, maybe.”

Jesus Christ. Colin really has no business being so perfect _while_ he’s fucking him, Taron reckons.

They rock together slowly for a while, Taron’s mouth hanging open and Colin resting against the mountain of pillows and the headboard behind him, looking ecstatic and incredulous, touching Taron all over—hands roaming over Taron’s thighs, bum, hips, back, pulling him close and anchoring him even when he’s tipping back a tad too much—and Taron really cannot believe his luck. He needs Colin to know how good this is. 

He doesn’t usually talk that much during sex. He does make noise (because he can’t effectively shut it when it’s _good_ —and yes, there have been times in the past when it’s been undeniably, noise-producingly good), but he doesn’t usually make much sense. Today, however, seems to be different: today, he actually finds the words to tell Colin exactly what feels good.

“Yes,” he moans, after Colin tilts a bit and the angle changes slightly, and he thinks he’s hallucinating, because somehow he feels Colin even deeper, as if a new level of ‘good’ had just been unlocked. “Fuck, yes, this is—” Taron inhales sharply and his sentence finishes in a loud whine, because now the pace has changed, too. It’s more sustained, smooth strokes, which he decides he needs more of, now, please. He chases them, then, moving with more purpose, and the noise element—the wet, clapping sounds of his butt hitting Colin’s thighs, their heavy breathing, the light creaking of the mahogany headboard against the wall… Well, it only spurs him on, really.

“Yes, good, Taron, you’re so _good_ , fuck,” Colin grunts, wrapping one hand around Taron’s cock and smoothing the other across Taron’s abs, flat against his flexing body, snaking up his pecs and collarbones until he’s grabbing the side of his neck and pulling him into a searing kiss. 

Taron really feels the weight of that hand, pressed against his chest and the pounding of his heart. It flares up an almost frantic need in him; to get Colin closer to his pulse, to feel that pressure elsewhere. It’s—

But he doesn’t know if he should. Colin’s probably never—

Taron’s train of thought is interrupted when Colin’s grip shifts and he skids the pad of his thumb over Taron’s Adam’s apple. Alright. It’d be almost criminal, then, not to try it. Taron grabs his wrist, gently moving Colin’s hand on his neck. Shifts it from the side of it to the front, so that it’s really wrapped around his throat. He looks down to check Colin’s reaction.

His eyes are as wide as Taron was expecting, and his mouth is slack, and he looks like he looked before, when Taron first suggested the blowjob—so aroused it could actually be mistaken for exasperated.

“Oh, fuck off,” Colin says, as he adjusts his palm to better adhere it to Taron’s throat. He doesn’t squeeze it, however. Not quite. “You want—”

“Yeah,” Taron replies, softly, feeling a rush of blood to his cock. “Please,” he adds.

Colin just shakes his head wordlessly, but keeps his hand where it is. Taron tries leaning against it a bit, adding his own pressure, and that’s what breaks Colin, apparently. He starts thrusting again, hitting an urgent tempo almost immediately and practically bouncing Taron on his lap, until Taron bears down and leans to brace against the headboard. They’re in a clinch now, hot and close with panting breaths and small, rough noises each time Colin thrusts.

“ _Fuck_ , Taron, is it—” Colin lets out a short gasp, and Taron nods, quick and urgent. It’s fine, it’s okay, everything in this moment is perfect and he has no words at his command to say so. The pressure of Colin’s hand against his throat is just enough to give him the suggestion of what could happen if they really went there, another time. He reaches with his free hand to grab himself then, pumping twice and then pausing, because they’re both close. He can feel Colin’s movements grow ragged and he leans in to join their lips—Colin lets him, keeping a hand splayed over his throat and groaning into the kiss—and then Colin’s coming, the hot surge of it inside him sending a wave of aching happiness through Taron’s whole being. He lets out a gasping peal of laughter and grabs his own cock again, stroking fast and careless in an effort to catch up with Colin. It’s a challenge, he’s not quite there, and then all of a sudden he is, he holds his breath and focuses on Colin’s hand against his Adam's apple and it happens, he’s coming again. 

Although he’s slowed some, Colin’s still rocking up into him so it’s easy to just ride him through the sharp crest of this second orgasm. When the high point passes and Taron’s coming down, catching his breath, he opens his eyes and finds Colin blinking at him, dazed and quietly elated.

Colin lets his hand trail from Taron’s throat down his chest, dropping to join Taron’s hand on his cock. It seems like Colin’s going to say something… but then it just turns into a breathless chuckle, and he pats Taron’s hand and flops his head back against the headboard in exhaustion.

“Ow,” he grumbles, eyes still crinkling in happy amusement, and Taron has to kiss him then. It’s uncoordinated and sloppy, and eventually just turns into him resting his forehead against Colin’s temple and listening to him breathe.

Colin’s growing soft inside him. He knows it won’t exactly be a beautiful moment when he climbs off, so Taron stays where he is for another minute, until Colin gives him a gentle prod on the shoulder.

“Taron.” Taron lets out a little hum in response. “I’m going to say two really awful, old person things.”

“Okay?”

“I can’t believe you came again. Also I need you to get up, because this is murder on my back.”

Taron starts to giggle, very quietly. 

“Shhh.”

Taron keeps giggling. It’s going to be hard to stop.

“Shut up.” Now Colin’s laughing too. He swats at Taron’s butt, and Taron sits up and smacks him back, lightly though, on the arm. 

“Tell me you’re going to order dinner, and I’ll get up.” Taron grins. “Let’s get room service.”

Colin nods. “Let’s.”

Taron nods back, smirking, and then gingerly climbs off Colin’s lap, enjoying the amazing sequence of expressions on Colin’s face as he reacts to all the physics and biology taking place between their bodies. 

“And after that?” 

“Whatever you want.” Colin smiles. “It’s your Christmas present.”

“How long can we stay?”

“As long as you like. I’ve got nothing on until—” Colin blinks sleepily, sighs, and mimes looking at a nonexistent wristwatch, “Wednesday.” God, he’s actually _punchy_ , Taron marvels, utterly amused. Does Colin Firth get silly after sex? It appears so. Like, dad-joke-silly.

“I’m driving home to Aber tomorrow,” Taron informs him. “So…”

Colin shrugs. “So that gives us… tonight?”

Taron grins. “It surely does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We didn't actually plan to have this story turn into a Firtherton romcom epic, it just kinda happened? It is also an unexpected delight to write chapter-a-day like this, and we hope that it's helping y'all get through the end of this #cursed year as much as it's helping the two of us.
> 
> On another important note: I think we can all agree that Tom Hardy's work in this chapter really brought everything together. Amazing work as always, Tom, thanks. 
> 
> On a sappy note: we're very proud of this one. Like. Really really.
> 
> Coming Up: Taron heads west, and gets a nice call from a politically exposed American friend.
> 
> Love, S & C xx
> 
> P.S. especially for Matthew Vaughn: if you're reading, sir, giz a call. We will write you a full script featuring Roman as Liam, Eggsy's secret child (so secret, Eggsy had no idea he even existed!) that he had with a random girl when he was 18, and who somehow turns out to be a kickass mini spy. Please, Matt. Please.
> 
> P.P.S. for everyone else: yes, Taron's dog sitter is played by Dan Levy.


	22. Chris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello?” he tentatively greets as he picks up the call.
> 
> “Hey!” the familiar voice of America’s Ass rings through the entire space of his car. “Taron!”
> 
> “So this number isn’t just a fake one you give to fans!” Taron replies, chuckling at the memory of exchanging numbers with Chris Evans and Scarlett Johansson back in January at the Globes afterparty, and then never actually trying said numbers, because why would he just, what, text Chris Evans? As it turns out, he probably could have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Nice having you back. Today's a bit of a special one, where present and past get a bit blurry.
> 
> Here's our [song of the day](https://open.spotify.com/track/5yZtHXjySe6jDjOM6Yi3Mw?si=6aYv9h9URCqToAIN7Gq-Lg).
> 
> 🎶 _Let there be hotel complaints and grievances raised_ 🎶

The sun seems unusually bright this morning, the air cold and crisp as Taron walks back in the direction of the Marv offices. Thank God he left the Range in a car park yesterday, and not on the street. 

It costs a small fortune getting it out, but that’s the last thing on Taron’s mind, which is whirring with plans. He might still make it to Aberystwyth before dinner, but not before it gets dark. And he’ll have to take Nelly for a walk before they climb back in the car together. And pack, because of course he didn’t do it before leaving for the screen test yesterday. He’d planned to organise a suitcase last night… and then his plans changed. 

As he drives west across town toward his flat, the white noise of the traffic fades into the background and he waits for his spinning thoughts to settle. When the worries for the rest of the day sink away, what remains is the familiar sense of happy disbelief that’s been with him since yesterday afternoon. Memories from the last eighteen hours bounce around in his head, and it’s impossible to say which ones are his favourites. Alone in his car, he finds himself smiling and more than a little blown away. 

Time’s weird, he’s learned that lesson well this year. Only this time yesterday, things were so different. That feels like a century ago. And now—well, it’s been less than an hour since he and Colin parted. It feels terribly sad, as though they’ve both gone off to war or something, and yet he’s still smiling. Still thinking about that kiss.

***

**_ One hour earlier _ **

Taron faintly registers Colin opening the wardrobe and getting his coat out for him—he hadn’t even realised that Colin must have tidied up while he was in the shower, last night. Or maybe this morning. God, why does he _have_ to be this perfect.

“Here, dear,” Colin says, putting the hanger back onto the rack and holding Taron’s coat open for him. “Let me.”

Taron smiles up at him, feeling a knot form in his throat. He can see Colin’s also sad, underneath. He’s smiling too, but it doesn’t entirely reach his eyes. It’s good to have to turn his back on Colin to put on his coat, take a break from that intense gaze.

Colin smooths both hands on his shoulders as soon as it’s done. “There.” Taron turns around to face him again, and suddenly he’s much closer. Like, a breath away. “This looks very sharp on you, by the way.”

Taron nods, swallows some of his emotions. “Thanks. I hoped you’d like it.” He did. It’s an old, deep navy Burberry number that he doesn’t wear nearly enough; he picked it out of his closet especially for the occasion, because he knew, he thought, he hoped Colin would appreciate it.

“You’re always dashing, you know. Always. Like I said —it’s not the clothes, it’s you.”

“Col…” Taron says, and cuts himself off because, fuck, he realises how strangled he sounds, and it’s no good.

“Shhh, it’s alright, yeah?” Colin says, taking Taron’s face in both hands. Taron thinks he’s going to be kissed, for a second, but it doesn’t happen.

Taron’s eyes go even mistier, and he shakes his head. “Couldn’t you, like. I dunno, be a bit of an arse to me, right now? Make it easier,” he says, with a nervous laugh, running his hands over Colin’s chest, feeling the soft cashmere of his jumper and remembering how it felt when he touched it for the first time, yesterday. “Tell me to fuck off, or something.”

And then Colin’s grinning, and it’s genuine, and he’s also shaking his head and leaning into Taron, and they’re kissing again, but this time it tastes like toothpaste and coffee and only slightly like goodbye.

“Thank you,” Taron whispers as they part. He smoothes a hand over Colin’s cheek, feeling his beard once more. “This was… You are…” He shakes his head again and drops his gaze, fixating on somewhere between the sides of Colin’s unbuttoned shirt collar. C’mon, Taron. Keep it the fuck together.

“Hey,” Colin says, gently tilting his head back up. “As far as I’m concerned, this shouldn’t be the end. Unless you want it to be. Which would frankly break my heart, but also be perfectly alright. I seem to be rather used to that, lately.”

Taron feels a rogue tear roll down his cheek—the little bitch, so damn treacherous. He wipes it away. “Well, I wouldn’t be alright either. I’d be wrecked. So I’m glad we’re both…”

“...both contemplating heartbreak, from the sounds of it. And for no good reason.” Colin sighs. “I know, you’re not that sad, you just cry—”

“—just _cry_ ,” Taron says it with him, rolling his eyes in embarrassment. “Yep. Yes.” He sniffles as discreetly as he can and bites his lip. “Forgotten you knew that.”

“Of course,” Colin says, sweetly, angling for another kiss. It’s all salty and messy now, but it somehow takes all of Taron’s chagrin away in a single swoop. “I promise we’ll work something out.”

Taron nods, pulling the sleeve of his jumper slightly out of his coat to dry off his tears. He takes a deep breath to ground himself, in through the nose, big exhale through the mouth, dramatic as, and frankly a bit laughable—but Colin doesn’t laugh. “Yeah, alright. I promise, too.”

“Good boy,” Colin says, benevolently, and it’s not quite the same as it was yesterday or this morning when they were having sex, either, it’s… Just lovely to hear. “Merry—”

“No,” Taron interrupts. “Not yet. This is definitely not the last time we’ll talk before then.”

Colin beams down at him. “Right. Quite. Just drive safe, then, eh? Get there in one piece. It would—”

“—break your heart to lose me, yes, I heard you the first time,” Taron teases, but then still pulls him into another, last, deep, desperate kiss, that lasts until only a few second before he opens the door and walks through it—not really looking behind, because he knows he won’t leave at all if he does.

***

As soon as he’s picked Nelly up, he quickly gathers some clothes and toiletries in a suitcase, thanks his past self for neatly wrapping every single present and putting them in bags that are easy to carry, and makes himself a giant travel mug of coffee. He puts Nelly back on her lead, chucks everything in the car, and starts on his four-odd-hour drive to Aber.

He can’t decide between Robbie and Gary today, so he puts on Elton. _Honky Château_. Good compromise, he reckons, although he deliberately starts the album on track 2, because the amount of #baggage attached to _Honky Cat_ is a tad too much to sustain on his own, during a solitary drive in the pouring rain. Nelly’s here, sure, but. Yeah.

_ Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters _ has just started, when the car Bluetooth system notifies him of an incoming phone call. He sighs, and off-handedly glances at the screen. He rolls his eyes. He’s not feeling particularly talkative, right now, and he’d much rather be listening to Elton and singing along than —

Wait. _Who_ is calling him? This can’t be.

“Hello?” he tentatively greets as he picks up the call.

“Hey!” the familiar voice of America’s Ass rings through the entire space of his car. “Taron!”

“So this number isn’t just a fake one you give to fans!” Taron replies, chuckling at the memory of exchanging numbers with Chris Evans and Scarlett Johansson back in January at the Globes afterparty, and then never actually trying said numbers, because why would he just, what, text Chris Evans? As it turns out, he probably could have.

Chris laughs. “No it’s not, you goof.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure, sir?” Taron asks, shaking his head incredulously and grinning, turning briefly to mouth _Captain America is calling daddy on the phone_ to Nelly—who, of course, doesn’t give a flying fuck about Chris Evans. (Maybe she’s not into men at all, Taron wonders. No wonder she’s never impressed when this kind of stuff happens.)

“I just wanted to congratulate you and James, the backbones of the Laughing Man campaign, on a well-deserved victory. Couldn’t get James, but I’m so happy I caught you. Where are you, by the way? I hear noise in the background.”

“I’m in the car, driving home for Christmas and all that,” Taron says, realising how supremely chuffed he is about the destination of his trip. Everything that happened in the last day or two completely took his attention away from going home. “Hey man, thanks. James and I will be raising a glass to all of you tonight. No hard feelings, right?”

“Never, man.” Taron can hear the smile in his voice. “Never. I can’t wait to work with you, by the way. Just a reminder, if you ever feel down: that fuckin’ movie is happening.”

Taron really wants to believe him. He really, really wants to believe that he’ll get to play Seymour in _Little Shop_ once again—and this time not as a dorky pubescent boy, but as a dorky and arguably hunky thirty-something.

“Mate, I can’t wait either. And by the way, Ryan wants to write us a make-out scene in the next _Deadpool_. You should decide between yourselves who gets first dibs.”

“That’d definitely be me, then,” Chris says, confidently. “There must be something in the HFPA bylaws that stipulates dibs for presenters, right? Or like, you owe me a Golden Globe. Something like that.”

They chat back and forth for almost an hour, Chris bemoaning the state of things in America and quizzing Taron on what things have been like in the UK, and then earnestly nerding out about plans for more political work in the coming year. 

“Of course, that’s assuming I don’t have another PR fuck up.” Chris chuckles dismally. 

Taron’s surprised he brought it up, but since he did—

“Mate, I literally just told someone the other day that you probably saved the election by turning that into a get out the vote campaign. Seriously.”

Chris laughs. “Shut the fuck up!”

“I  _did!”_

“So you were talking about my dick. Cool.” Chris sighs. “That makes three billion and _one_ people, then.”

“The nation and the entire world salute you, my friend.”

“Why, thank you. I’m picturing you actually saluting me, you sound so damn solemn.”

“I _genuinely_ believe you got a lot of people to register to vote. I could never have turned it around like that, you’re a legend.”

“Oh,” Chris says, sounding embarrassed but pleased. “Yeah. Thanks. Can I tell you something? This stays in the cone, though, seriously. I got a box of chocolates and an invitation to dinner. Dr. Jill seems to be… fond.”

Taron brings a hand to his mouth. Chris can’t see him, sure, but theatrics are still in order. This is _scandalous_. “Does her old man know why?” he asks, biting his lip to stop himself from chuckling.

“I don’t think he does, and I’m determined to keep it that way. He doesn’t pay attention to movie stars, right? God, has the fucking president seen my _dick_?”

“You’re a true American hero, Christopher. Never forget that.”

As the call disconnects, Taron finds himself thinking of many things—mainly, however, how one man’s errant dick pic truly might have changed U.S. electoral history.

He throws Elton back on the speakers and gets back into the rhythm of driving as his mind drifts from Chris and his dick-related escapades to the previous night.

***

**_ Last night, 6:30 PM _ **

Colin’s in the shower. Taron has just called to extend Nelly’s stay at the sitter’s, since he won’t be coming home, and now he’s flicking through the room service menu. The choice isn’t massive, but it all looks absolutely divine. Judging by the wording, there mainly appears to be British dining staples with a classy twist: cod battered in fancy craft beer and thick-cut chips, bangers and mash, and oh, God bless, they have pies. Taron hasn’t had a proper pie in… well, since the last time he was at Tina’s in Aber, so, since the summer. Which is criminal. It’s not the sexiest post-shag meal, a meat pie, but…

“Col?” he calls out, in a sing-song voice.

A few seconds later, the water in the shower stops running. “Yes?” Colin replies, sounding amused.

Taron grins to himself and gets up to pad to the bathroom —no use in shouting, they’ve probably already made enough noise as it is.

“I was thinking—oh, hello,” he says, catching the precise moment when Colin is stepping out of the shower, gloriously naked and wet. He completely forgets what he was going to say.

“Hi,” Colin greets back, smiling at him as he reaches for the extremely fluffy-looking white bathrobe hanging behind him, and wraps himself in it. “I’m listening. What did you want to ask me?”

Taron closes his eyes and briefly shakes his head at himself. “You really should come with a warning, Jesus fuck.” He remembers his brief worry from earlier. “You know, normally I’d be a bit less, I dunno, Burt Reynolds or whatever, down there.” He casts his eyes down his own body, toward his absolutely 2020 on-brand lack of manscaping. “Sorry if—” 

Colin shakes his head, dismissing the apology. “Taron. Do you honestly think I give a damn _at all_ about that?”

“You’re… ok, you’re correct about that.”

“Is that what you came in here to tell me?” 

“Actually, I just wanted to know how you felt about ordering pies for dinner.”

“You should order whatever pleases you,” Colin says, in the tone of someone who doesn’t really understand where the issue might lie. “A pie sounds lovely, actually.”

“Not exactly the sexiest meal there is, though, is it,” Taron says, then immediately regrets saying it out loud, because he now knows how neurotic he must sound. He looks at Colin looking at him, in that adoring kind of way, and realises… yeah, he’s still worrying for nothing.

“What do you…”

“Forget it, I’m being stupid,” Taron says, rightly, walking up to Colin and standing on his tiptoes to kiss him. 

“Which kind of pie would you like?” Colin asks, with a nonchalant expression on his face as one of his hands slides down Taron’s naked back to come and rest on the top of his buttock, squeezing gently.

Taron smirks, arching into the touch. “Surprise me.”

When he gets out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, the room smells like the most amazing pub dinner he’s ever had. The room service cart is stacked full of goods: an ice bucket containing an open bottle of champagne, two full flutes sitting beside it, two plates covered with steel cloches, a bowl full of bread, and finally one uncovered plate on the lower level, where Taron can see an enticing-looking lemon meringue pie.

He also has the pleasure to notice that Colin hasn’t bothered with clothes, electing to lounge in his bathrobe instead; he looks unreal, hair still floppy and damp, glasses back on, reclined on the giant blue velvet settee in front of the window. 

“You really don’t do things halfway, do you?” Taron asks, settling down in the space next to him and eyeing the room service cart.

“‘Fraid not,” Colin replies. He looks proud, smug and just generally over-the-moon. “I wasn’t sure, so I got us two different pies. I also couldn’t decide between mash and roast potatoes, so I got both. Take your pick.”

And Taron, as the self-indulgent, food-loving child he is, doesn’t. Picking only one pie is for people who aren’t on a sex holiday with Colin Firth, and he prefers instead to cut the two pies in half and have both flavours. It’s _divine_ , all of it, and the champagne turns out to be something vintage and maybe a tad too expensive for a first kiss-date-shag—whatever this is. On a second thought, though, it’s Christmas. And moreover, one could argue that this, this entire thing, has been a few years coming. So. Yeah. Maybe he does deserve the £300 bubbly, after all.

“So,” Colin starts, setting down his glass and looking at him intensely. “You know the thing we did, earlier.” He pauses. Taron can think of approximately twenty-five cheeky retorts, to that, but Colin looks very serious, so he just takes another sip of champagne and doesn’t interrupt. Colin delicately clears his throat. “When I think… you wanted me to choke you.”

Taron’s eyes go wide and the wine absolutely goes down the wrong pipe, leaving him a coughing, teary mess for a little while, before he finally manages to nod and chuckle. “Yeah. Yes. That. Almost did it right there again, actually.” He points to his own throat and coughs again, theatrically.

“Oh god. Apologies for the terrible timing, I just… I didn’t know when to bring it up.” Colin’s clearly a bit uncomfortable but soldiering through nonetheless. Taron’s wildly curious about his motivations, though. “I’ve never done that before. And I was wondering... whether you could explain how it’s done? Safely, I mean?”

Taron actually has to bite his lip. It’s too much, too sweet and too hot at the same time. Putting down his glass next to Colin’s, he scootches closer to him on the settee. “That really got you, back there, didn’t it,” he states rather than asks, because it’s obvious now how much the move truly affected Colin.

“It really did. I… I didn’t know—”

“It feels really good, done correctly.” Colin nods, listening intently. Jesus, this feels oddly kinky, teaching Colin a sex thing. Also kind of feels like Charlie’s texted him or something. “Um, just even pressure, yeah? Not, like, actually strangling or anything.” Then it occurs to Taron. “Maybe I can show you first-hand, when we’re done here?” He winks, wiggling his fingers and then bringing his hand up to brush teasingly at the side of Colin’s neck. 

Colin tilts his head to lean into Taron’s hand. “Hmmm. I’m interested.” 

So, that bodes extremely well.

*

Taron’s full to the brim after the main course plus all the sides—because it’s criminal, really, to leave just a few potatoes on one’s plate, everyone knows that—but he still absolutely has space for dessert. He’s also a bit pissed, because the first bottle of champagne went down a bit too well, so Colin immediately ordered a second one, which is now only half-full, and… Yeah, Tipsy Taron is silly and giggly and a bit of a horndog. Nothing new here, really: it’s just the first time he gets to hang out half-naked around an equally half-naked Colin Firth, and it’s… Well, it’s a lot.

Taron starts by asking Colin to feed him bits of pie; and Colin, possibly a bit intoxicated himself, obliges, him. He reaches for a fork, at first, but Taron quickly discards it, nothing wrong with eating with one’s hands, they’re clean, after all, and it’s so _lovely_ , the look on Colin’s face when Taron’s lips briefly wrap around the tip of his fingers. Taron also hollows his cheeks out the tiniest bit, for good measure, because he’s drunk in a hotel room with one of the sexiest men alive, for fuck’s sake, and he really feels like laying it on thick.

“Oh, you’re…” Colin says, low and rather breathless. There’s something in his eyes, now; something Taron recognises from before. And to be fair, from every time he’s ever been bratty around Colin over the years. Even in much more unsuspecting circumstances. “You’re really quite slutty, aren’t you.”

Taron feels a rush of blood to his groin as he nods his head yes, Colin’s index finger still in his mouth. He pulls out of it with a loud pop, then flashes him a grin and waggles his eyebrows for good measure. “Slutty for pie? Definitely. Slutty for you? Also extremely accurate.”

Barely ten minutes later sees both robes discarded on the floor, the room service cart pushed away, and Taron on all fours on the settee, desperately trying to keep it together as Colin demonstrates how 35 years of heterosexuality really don’t matter, because rimming is like riding a bicycle.

*

They’re fucking again. It’s not that Taron thought it _wouldn’t_ happen? He’s just really unbelievably happy that it has. He wasn’t quite sure about Colin’s, what-do-you-call it, _refractory period_ , and asking about that seemed like it might actually push the boundaries of this whole younger brat/older top thing they’ve been playing around with.

“You’re beautiful,” Colin tells him for possibly the dozenth time. It’s sweeter with each repetition, especially as Colin’s voice gets more of a desperate edge as the night goes on. 

They’re playing a very dangerous game now, a game Taron has dubbed “Can We Avoid Damaging These Extremely Expensive Furnishings With Sexual Hijinx?” Right now, the furnishing most at risk is the settee itself, this sumptuous blue velvet dream that they already ate a two-course meal on, which means they’re really, really tempting fate. And now Colin’s got him on his hands and knees, cheek pressed against the cushioned back of the settee and bumping forward against its plush softness with every thrust. He’s got his robe stuffed under him on the cushions—they’d both shed those right away in tipsy excitement—and he’s still got the taste of lemon meringue on his tongue, and he’s pretty sure he’s more than halfway to drunk. 

“Colin?”

“Yeah?” Colin sounds out of breath and ecstatic.

“ _Fuck_ , just—” he rocks forward again with Colin’s next energetic thrust. “—could you go harder? Come on, old man, give it to me.” 

Colin doesn’t pause for an instant, he lets out a quick bark of laughter and grabs Taron’s arse with a firm hand. “Really?”

“Yeah, go for it.” Taron turns and peers over his shoulder, catching Colin’s eye and grinning. “Like before. Felt great.”

Colin shakes his head in wonderment and laughs again. “I’ll follow your lead.”

“Making me do all the work again,” Taron says, mocking rolling his eyes in annoyance, but actually rolling them, in the end, because he’s rocking backwards and it just feels _so_ good.

That earns him a slap on his right cheek. “Brat.”

“Thank you, yes,” Taron replies, feeling his chest vibrate with ecstatic mirth. “More of that, would be great. C’mon, I can take it.”

“Forgetting something?” Colin says, slowing down _again_ , because he’s apparently decided to drive Taron insane, just dangling the promise of roughness in front of him and then making him beg for it a little more.

It’s fine, really. He’s not above any of that. He just doesn’t feel like being polite. Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s the position, maybe it’s the half-open curtains and the streets of Soho on the other side of them. The remote possibility that they’d catch someone’s eye—a snippet of Taron on his hands and knees in the golden light of the room, hands on both his hips and obviously getting fucked… it ticks a lot of boxes, as far as the exhibitionist inside Taron (who comes out when he’s had a few too many) is concerned.

“Oh yes, sorry,” Taron says, exhaling loudly and letting out a satisfied little noise while he unceremoniously does all the work, rocking backwards again and feeling Colin’s cock deeper inside him. He lifts up a little, then turns his head to meet Colin’s eyes. “Fuck me.”

Colin looks severely affected by the whole thing, brow furrowed and an exasperated half-smile, and Taron knows he’s trying to look stern, trying to establish he’s the one in charge, but he’s also _loving_ this. It goes both ways: Taron, too, knows how to read him.

He’s right, of course. Colin grunts and spanks him again, then reaches a hand forward to grab at the short hair on his nape, pulling it, still rather gentle but there’s sheer potential in there, Taron knows.

And then Colin really starts on an almost frantic rhythm, and there’s the noise of skin on skin mixing with the strangled sounds escaping from Taron’s mouth and the low grunts and words of praise from Colin, and the alcohol amplifies everything, and it’s _wonderful_. Every time he gets close, Taron hears the pitch of his moans change—and Colin must hear it too, because _ every time _ he slows down, and he bats Taron’s hand away when he tries to reach for his own dick.

Colin keeps him like that for minutes, or maybe hours, and when he comes his buttcheeks are red from all the spanking, and it’s so intense he momentarily forgets to breathe.

***

He loves the feeling of driving on the familiar roads about ten minutes out from his mam’s house. If it were still light out, this is where he’d start to scan between the buildings, to see if he could see the sea. (He loves that James Acaster bit, and for a competitive lad like Taron, being first to spot the ocean is serious business.) 

Nelly’s been napping in the passenger footwell for the last half hour, but she rouses when Taron pulls off the A44 onto a side street and parks. They should be close enough now, he imagines. 

“Check it out, girl.” He pats the seat next to him, and Nelly jumps up and shakes her ears, still waking up. Taron cracks the window a few inches and Nelly immediately perks up with the rush of cold air. “Listen.” He shuts off the engine, and quiet fills the cab of the car for a moment.

Then, not too far off, the soft crashing noise of the waves whispers in on the wind. He listens for a while, letting the smell and the sound of home pull him into the present moment. After a minute or two, Nelly shakes herself again and cuddles up to Taron’s thigh. 

“Okay, okay.” It’s too cold to sit like this. He starts the car and closes the window, and Nelly sniffs with gratitude before jumping down into her spot on the floor again. He shoots a quick text to his mam, and then pulls out onto the main street and starts driving toward her house again. It’s been months, and it’s felt like years, but he’s home again. 

Minutes later, as he pulls up and sees the front light flip on for him, it finally feels real. He’ll haul in his bag, hug everyone, eat, drink, laugh, rest —and then, when it’s quiet, he’ll likely call Colin. If time allows, that is. For now, though, he’ll just text.

_ Got here safe and sound. Gonna do family time now, very excited _

Colin responds immediately. 

**_ Glad you made it. I’ve missed you today. Please say hello to Tina—although I realize I’m not Mark Strong, so she likely won’t care. _ **

_ You can’t actually flirt with my mum anymore, you realize _

**_ Shit. You’re right. _ **

**_ Hello to you, then. _ **

_ Hello. Talk later? _

**_ That would be lovely, call whenever you like. _ **

And later on, Taron does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo. We didn't show you yesterday, but we'd _love_ to show you today. Hazlitt's Hotel is an absolute dream: here's their  
> [Instagram page](https://www.instagram.com/hazlittshotel/?hl=en), for context. They absolutely do have [a cat](https://www.instagram.com/p/CIWgPcOnP_k/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) (the chonkiest boy EVER, and his name is Sir Godfrey, FFS), and that [blue velvet settee](https://www.instagram.com/p/B9lgK7FHqy3/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) is a thing, too. And we're simple people, really—we saw it, we had to write about it. It was imperative. Unavoidable. 
> 
> In case you missed it, earlier this year Chris Evans really did have a [dick pic scandal](https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/benhenry/chris-evans-responds-to-dick-pick-accidental-leak). And yes, he did turn it into a campaign to get people registered to vote. The stuff about Dr. Jill Biden is, of course, our own little piece of speculation... But also, the woman has eyes. So. We're 99% sure we're correct in alleging her, what do you call it? Fondness? for our old pal Christobald Evans.
> 
> Finally, all these fucking feels: we're sorry, but we also are not. We're both living through sad, unprecedented holiday season circumstances, and we're absolutely #projecting on Taron, here. 
> 
> And a special message to all our friends in the UK: we're with you. We know what's going on, we could have changed the course of this story, but it's Christmas, and this is our fantasy, Richard Curtis-inspired romcom, so... We spared you all the angst. But we see you, and we love you. Stay strong ❤❤❤
> 
> Coming up: Taron gets his hands dirty in the kitchen.
> 
> See you tomorrow!
> 
> S & C xxx


	23. Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Honest, Jamie, it’s true! He loves eating them, but never really helps me…”
> 
> “Muuuummmm,” Taron whispers, between comically gritted teeth. “Jamie thinks I’m a serious cook-slash-baker!”
> 
> “Don’t worry, Taron, I know you are,” Jamie replies, winking. “Honestly, you’re my star pupil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, how could we not give you a Jamie Oliver chapter. Two days before Christmas. Honest, it would have been criminal.
> 
> Here's our ridiculously cheesy [song of the day](https://open.spotify.com/track/6bkOMcBuSjl2cftYa2DrFj?si=lYwbTdDNT0-UaE9ySA3JDQ), for some of that warm and fuzzy Christmas feeling. Yeah, that's right. That's the stuff. ❤

Taron doesn’t usually sleep in, but when he’s at his mam’s over the holidays, he maybe tends to overindulge a bit. Maybe. 

However, he does have excitable little sisters. And this time round said excitable little sisters have taken it upon themselves to be his personal alarm clock this, it seems.

“Taron! Taron! Wake up, Taron!” little Mari cries out as she and Rosie burst through Taron’s bedroom door.

“Mmgh,” Taron groans, half asleep, throwing a glance at the analog clock on his nightstand. 11:05 AM. Pretty decent, considering he didn’t get to sleep until 1, because he was too busy thinking of—

“Come _on_ , Taron,” Rosie says, in an impatient tone. “You’ve got mail! Big boxes!”

“Santa’s arrived early, mam said,” Mari adds, in an adorably business-like tone. “She said because he can’t do the rounds on Christmas Eve for _everyone_ , big boys like you get presents today.”

Taron rubs his hands over his face and grins into his palms. “Well, then. Good morning, sweethearts.” He perches himself up on his elbows to get a look at them: they’re both _so excited_. “And merry Christmas to me, then, eh?”

“Merry Christmas!” the girls exclaim, in unison. 

“Eyyyy!” Taron echoes, before collapsing back into bed and pulling the duvet over himself.

“C’mon Taronnnnn!” Mari says, tugging at Taron’s hand where it peeks out from under the covers. “Presents!”

Ten minutes later, Taron discovers that “presents” actually means two giant boxes of food and drink with Jamie Oliver’s logo all over them. He grins, opening a tin of what looks like homemade shortbread, as Tina hands him a cup of tea.

“Thanks, Mam. Hey, you seen this?” he asks, waving a big card in front of her face like a petulant child. “Jamie wants to bake with us. Tonight, over Zoom.”

And, as far-fetched as that sounds, it’s true: Jamie Oliver has reserved an hour of his precious prime time to bake with the Egerton-Pound household. Because, again, for the millionth time, this is Taron’s life now, apparently.

He calls Jamie on the phone to confirm that this is indeed real life and not just an elaborate prank. It’s brief and to the point, but the man is just as incredibly nice and as much fun as he remembered. They agree on after dinner, for the Zoom call with the families; Taron tells the girls, and they’re _very_ excited. Tina has Jamie on the telly more often than not, and they know this is a big deal.

Someone who is also a big deal, Taron realises as he’s halfway through his second cup of tea and his, what, tenth (?) chocolate Hobnob, is Colin Firth. Colin, who gave him one of the best Christmas presents he’s ever received, definitely deserves one too.

Christmas is the day after tomorrow, and he quickly finds out that no website he can think of will ever deliver anything in a discreet and timely enough fashion. He despairs, at first. He contemplates asking Tina, to whom he’s always gone for advice in the past, but this… Well. This isn’t something he can actually discuss with her. Yet. So he despairs some more. And then, after a chilly walk with Nelly that has him cogitating for a couple of hours, he finds a solution. 

He phones up the PR team at Montblanc, and works some magic. His contact is a bloke who has an obvious crush on him, that in any circumstance he 100% would feel bad for exploiting, but time is of the essence here, and Geoff is Taron’s only hope. He organises for some glitzy and rather festive rose gold and blue goldstone [ cufflinks ](https://www.mrporter.com/en-ch/mens/product/montblanc/accessories/cufflinks/meisterstueck-pvd-coated-rose-gold-tone-and-blue-goldstone-cufflinks/14097096497267928) to be sent to Colin, alongside a [ classic-looking black belt with a modern twist ](https://www.montblanc.com/en-ch/belts_cod34480784411798410.html) , and a [ gorgeous notebook ](https://www.montblanc.com/en-ch/notebooks_cod31432202865418688.html). He thinks of a pen, for a while, but then decides against it. Maybe in a few months, if everything goes well.

Geoff assures Taron that everything shall be delivered to the address Taron gave—Colin’s country house, where Taron knows he’ll be staying over the holidays. The house is isolated, somewhere in Surrey. It has a gravel driveway and no name on the door, which makes it the perfect destination for a package from a secret… what is he? A lover? Labels, labels.

Anyways. Montblanc are going to send it via express courier, and they guarantee exactly the kind of speedy and sensible handling of the delivery that Taron was looking for. He insists on paying for everything out of pocket, of course, but gets told it’s ‘all good’. He tries again, and benevolently gets shut down once more. Right. So. This new Montblanc gig is _that_ good, then. Better keep it in mind. (And better order those pens to be stashed in a drawer given to a young up-and-coming fella fifty years from now, as Bernie suggested.)

 **_Why did you need my address?_ ** Colin texts him, ten minutes later.

Taron rolls his eyes as he types out, _I’m going to mail you a giant cake and I’m going to jump out of it, dressed as a Playboy bunny_. Please. As if Colin didn’t know.

**_Very funny, Taron._ **

**_Although I’ll admit I would be partial to that kind of delivery._ **

Taron shakes his head and bites his lip. _Course. You kinky bastard. Aren’t your children around?_

**_You could hide in the closet until they leave?_ **

_You’re unbelievable ;)_

_I miss you_

**_I miss you too._ **

*

Hours later, chaos reigns in Tina’s kitchen, and Taron’s heart is full. His belly is too, full of sugar and alcohol. And there’s also something else.

Something in the way Jamie smirks at Taron every time he tilts a bowl to show how he’s doing with the mincemeat—yes, Jamie Oliver is having them make it from scratch—or when he tears off a bit of the pie crust to show Jamie the thickness he’s rolled it out to.

“Very good, Taron. I’m starting to think you’re full of it when you say you’ve never made mince pies before,” Jamie says, grinning as one of his peculiarly named children hands him a measuring spoon.

Taron raises an eyebrow at him, and does a little silly dance in response. Everyone’s tired of listening to Sinatra trip-tropping through Chrismas tunes, so Taron’s suggested ‘Frodsham’s answer to Canada’s answer to Frank Sinatra’, and now they’re listening to [Gary and James Corden going on about butch male friendships](https://open.spotify.com/track/0t9E2BEKqELEtGwqtLFid2?si=6iMPKcZ1RNOlvvrkhqtNGQ).

“Honest, Jamie, it’s true! He loves eating them, but never really helps me…”

“Muuuummmm,” Taron whispers, between comically gritted teeth. “Jamie thinks I’m a serious cook-slash-baker!”

“Don’t worry, Taron, I know you are,” Jamie replies, winking. “Honestly, you’re my star pupil.” 

At this point Taron just feels at home with it—the little bump of happiness that comes up when Jamie praises him or treats him like the favourite. It’s different, but somehow still connected to what he feels with Colin’s attentions. He grins at Jamie. “Thanks, teach.”

“Now,” Jamie announces merrily from the screen, “Taron’s going to show everybody how to do an egg wash like a pro, aren’t you, big boy?”

“Yessir,” Taron snappily replies, and sets about doing two of his favourite things—being impressive, and being entertaining. He squints. “But don’t we have to cut out the holly shapes first?”

“Oh my God, I forgot,” says Jamie, and Taron laughs. “The student has become the master! Taron’s in charge now, everyone.”

“Not by a long shot,” laughs Tina. 

“Noooo!” cry the girls in unison. 

“Why not?” asks Taron, reaching across the counter and grabbing a handful of candied nuts to chomp on, offering some to his sisters, who snatch them up. “Look how nice I am. Now we’ve gotta cut out the holly shapes and put them on top before we egg wash, right Jamie?”

“Right as rain, T. Okay, grab your cookie cutters. And Tina, you’re going to mix up the wash…”

As the lovely mayhem of the baking project continues, it occurs to Taron that he hasn’t been sad since he got here, not once. It wasn’t the fear of somehow losing Colin’s affections that had him so melancholy yesterday (although he certainly wasn’t happy about having to stop their little holiday). It was the idea of going back to his London life, back to the same thing every day, with only Nelly for company. He’s not miserable or anything, God knows he’s stupidly fortunate to have gotten through this awful, lonely year as unscathed as he has. But for a few hours, he’d felt like a part of something larger than himself. 

Now, surrounded by his girls and his town, knowing he’ll see his mates over the next few days, he feels like a part of his own family again. They’ve been here all along and they’ll still be here next year, or whenever the fuck things get better. He won’t be alone after he leaves here next week, even if he doesn’t get to run straight back into Colin’s arms.

His mam catches him spacing out a bit, and shoots him a smile.

God, he’s lucky to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sappy one today, and we're not apologising for any of it.
> 
> Coming up: everyone knows that Mam loves a hamper, and Taron discovers that two legends have been in cahoots to get him a cracking Christmas present.
> 
> See you tomorrow. We're really sad this is ending! But it's been a lovely ride. Almost there.
> 
> S & C xx


	24. Elton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fortnum & Mason hamper from Elton and David arrives on Thursday, and it is, Taron reckons anyway, roughly the size of a Smart car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Today's song](https://open.spotify.com/track/10HDoLPz2bucGBkoNEjDHW?si=rG5Aii-QRbWWPOp8Kukw5w) is from the man himself, our litte fic's Father Christmas and the man whose own story brought a lot of us to this fandom.  
> Enjoy this chapter, loves.

The Fortnum & Mason hamper from Elton and David arrives on Thursday, and it is, Taron reckons, roughly the size of a Smart car. 

“That’s not a hamper, that’s never a hamper,” he tells Tina. “That’s illegal.”

“Looks like the basket under a hot air balloon,” she observes. 

“We could all live in it,” Taron agrees. “They must have had it custom made?”

Tina laughs. “Yeah, I’d hazard a guess.” 

They manage to scoot it inside with surprisingly little fuss after roping Guy in for some assistance—the three of them actually perfected their technique with last year. They call the girls down from playing upstairs and set to unpacking everything, as an early Christmas treat. The basket contains no less than six different bottles of wine, an actual Jamón Ibérico shoulder, (“That’s for me, nobody else even poke it!” Guy declares), a cheese the size of Taron’s head, more types of biscuits than they can count… and that’s just the food. There are also toys for the girls, and more gifts for Taron and Tina. 

Taron recognizes the orange box and brown bolduc ribbon right away as Hermès, and although she doesn’t make a production of it, he can tell his mam is truly bowled over when she opens it and pulls out an elegant silk shawl in Christmassy hues. 

Her eyes meet Taron’s and the look she gives him says it all. “I know,” he shakes his head, smiling.

“Right?” she mouths, not surprised, but still thrilled. Taron’s had money, they both have, for long enough now to be accustomed to shocking luxuries like this. It’s more than that though; it’s the fact that they both remember when it wasn’t like this, when Taron wasn’t a movie star. Even his mates are used to it at this point—she’s really the only one in the world who really remembers who he still is, underneath it all.

He opens the card from David and Elton addressed to him. Inside is a business card for someone named Leslie Mason at Yamaha Music London, with a handwritten phone number. The note treads:

_Call our man Leslie and show him that list of yours, he’ll get you set up with anything your heart desires. And if you’ve already bought one yourself, let us know and we’ll pick you out a football team or something._

_Merry Christmas_

_Love,_

_E & D xxx_

Taron looks up, misty-eyed, and turns to Tina before saying anything.

“What,” she says. “Wait don’t tell me… gosh, I can’t begin to guess. What is it?”

“Mam,” Taron feels a bit choked up, and rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Elton’s getting me a piano.”

She claps her hands. “That’s great! Wait… did you… love, did you end up learning to _play_ piano?”

“No, not really,” he says, breathing out hard to avoid turning into the usual blubbing mess. “Just… Been thinking about it. I talked to someone, but I didn’t think. Ah f—” Taron catches himself before swearing, at the last available second. He turns to look at the girls, then back at Tina. “Sorry, mam. I just—”

And then she’s hugging him, and he’s sniffling quietly onto her shoulder. His wonderful, amazing mam, the force of nature she is, raising him on her own and supporting him every step of the way; he feels her pride radiate from the hug, her tiny figure holding him tight.

Later on, he calls Elton. They have a collective moment of Christmas glee, on camera and everything, and then he retires to his bedroom to have a one-on-one with the Big Man. It’s become a Christmas tradition, now, and he hopes it’ll last until the end of days.

“Right, so,” Taron says, as soon as the door is shut. “A piano? Haven’t you maybe gone a bit mad, old fruit?” He raises an eyebrow and smirks.

Elton chuckles. “Not at all, darling. Not at all. I’ve been looking for an excuse to give you one for ages, in fact. And then I got Valerie on the phone, last week—”

“Sorry, who?” Taron interrupts, feeling his grin grow wider. He’s got a hunch as to who ‘Valerie’ might be, but he needs confirmation.

“Oh you know Valerie! Been all over our telly for weeks, the old tart has. You must have caught her, surely: her outfits have been quite outrageous, lately—you can’t have missed her.” Elton purses his lips and adjusts his glasses. “I especially enjoyed the shameless flirting with Ronan Keating on the One Show.”

Right. He is talking about Gary Barlow, then. Valerie must be his drag name—some old _Corrie_ character, Taron’s almost positive. Valerie Barlow, that’s it. Elton’s really incorrigible.

“Can’t believe she snitched on me,” Taron replies, adopting a rather camp tone and shaking his head in mock outrage. “I’ll definitely have a word.” He can’t keep it up long, though, first of all because he’s incapable of outcamping Elton John. Also, because he’s full of warm, earnest fuzziness at the prospect of Elton buying him a piano. His expression softens. “No but, seriously, E: thank you. This is humongous. I’m a very lucky boy.”

Elton smiles. He looks moved. “You’re welcome, dear.”

“Really wish I could hug you, right now,” Taron says, fully meaning it.

“Me too. Soon, alright? Promise. And let me know how piano lessons go, eh? Barlow’s itching to have a pupil, don’t let him rush you!”

“I won’t, I’ll keep you updated on my progress.” Taron nods dutifully, all the while wondering whether he’s got enough nerve to just walk into a music shop and pick up a fucking _piano_ , that Elton John and Gary Barlow have conspired to get him as a Christmas present. He wonders if it’d be too over the top to go for a white baby grand.

(He suspects Gary will have the answer to that question.)

*

Christmas Eve usually means small presents for the girls, since Father Christmas isn’t coming until they go to bed, and only a moderate amount of food and drink for Taron. 

Christmas Eve usually also means sneaking out of Mam’s house a few hours before midnight, getting on the old bike he used to ride to go to school, and meeting up with Bleddyn at their local pub.

Christmas Eve in 2020, however, means that hanging out in a pub with a mate one hasn’t seen in months is frowned upon by Boris and his goons—so Taron is bundling up more than he normally would, gathering timber and other supplies to make a big fire, and waiting for Bleddyn in Tina’s back garden, where they’ve planned a safe-and-socially-distanced hangout by a bonfire. (Ugh, ‘socially distanced’. Taron is _so_ weary of hearing those words.)

Bleddyn arrives just as Taron’s managed to get the fire started. It’s taken several minutes, a dozen broken matches, and a lot of swearing, but he got there in the end. And it’s worth it, too, all that fuss, because Bleddyn is looking positively elated at the sight of the crackling and flaming pile of wood. Or maybe is it Taron he’s happy to see? 

“He-heyyyy!” Taron exclaims, as soon as their eyes meet in the orange light of the bonfire.

“Alright, Taz? Missed your stupid face,” Bleddyn replies, beaming.

Taron wants to hug him. Very bad. And smooch his face and pat his bum—just the standard greeting for one’s best friend in the whole world with whom one will always be a bit in love, you know?—but obviously he refrains from touching in any way. He just gives Bleddyn a bright smile instead, hoping the warmth coming from both it and the fire will be enough to make up for the lack of an acceptable level of PDA.

“Missed you too. Sorry I couldn’t be here for your birthday, as uz.” He’s missed most of Bleddyn’s birthdays since Matthew Vaughn has come into his life, and it breaks his heart every time. The social media recounting from the boys helps, though.

“I believe Tom did the heavy lifting of the birthday celebrations documentation, this year,” Bleddyn replies, with a smirk and an eyeroll. “I didn’t see it, but—”

“You looked smokin’,” Taron replies, fully meaning it. Their mutual friend Tom did indeed post a rather cheeky Instagram story on the day, captioned _Happy birthday big man_ and featuring a half-naked Bleddyn in the middle of chopping some wood in some yard in Aber. Taron did send a string of fire emojis to Tom, but he now realises Bleddyn hasn’t been on IG in almost a decade, and he probably hasn’t been made aware of Taron still thirsting over him, even after all these years.

“Oh, shut up,” Bleddyn replies, fake-modest. Taron knows him too well to buy it, so he raises an eyebrow while he nods towards a free spot on the bench he’s sitting on, a meter away from him. He extends an arm and hands Bleddyn a can of lager. 

“Alright, alright,” Bleddyn shrugs, accepting the beer and plopping down on the bench. “I may have been working out.”

It’s cold as, at midnight in Aberystwyth in December, but only for the first half hour. The chill is quickly swept away by the extremely successful fire and the frankly ridiculous quantity of alcohol that Taron has provided for the occasion.

The bants flow at a similarly impressive rate. As usual, a long overdue catch-up with Bleddyn turns into the easiest therapy session, for both of them, but this time… Well, this time, Taron’s just been swept off his feet, only three days ago, and he must not be hiding it as well as he thinks he is, because Bleddyn asks about it.

“Is there someone, then?” Simple, direct, to the point. Yep. That’s Bleddyn.

Taron opens his mouth, then closes it. To buy time, he looks down at his drink— _a can of Guinness_ , he remembers reasoning with himself while staring at it on the supermarket shelf, _whatever next?_ He swirls the plastic ball around inside the empty can, listening to the noise it makes, then crumples the aluminium in his hand and throws it on the side. It makes a light clanking sound when it lands on the small pile already there. 

Fine, enough temporising. He’s going to tell Bleddyn. He’s going to.

“I… I think so? Possibly. It’s—”

“—new?” Bleddyn finishes for him.

Taron smiles. He pictures Colin’s face, the first time they met, six years ago. And then he pictures Colin again, the first time they met in 2020.

“Not _exactly_. Things have just... changed, fairly recently.”

Bleddyn furrows his brow and looks confused for a second. “Do I know them?” 

“You know _of_ them, yeah,” Taron chuckles, feeling himself blush furiously and hiding his face in his hands. “Fuck. What the fuck, B.”

“Is this one of those moments when you wish you weren’t _him?_ ” This is their code. This is how they work around all the gossip and fame and privacy garbage that Taron deals with now. Him, that guy, the famous guy with famous friends and not enough privacy.

“Yeah! Fuck I wish I could talk more about it, but I wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

“Nope, I get it mate.” And he does, of course he does. 

“I’ll find out though, I hadn’t thought to ask, and then maybe I can—”

“Whatever works, it’s fine.” Bleddyn smiles. “I just care about your part of it. You seem, like, I dunno, like you’ve got something to hold you up.”

“That’s probably just being home, too.” Taron smiles back. “And seeing you, honestly.”

“No, this is different.” The light of the fire makes Bleddyn’s handsome face glow, orange and warm. “You’re having one of those times, when everything is shit but you’re still happy in spite of it, and I’m just really fucking happy to see it.” Bleddyn tilts his can back and drains the rest of it, then grins at Taron. “Maybe I’ll see you and your fella on a red carpet sometime next year? Surrounded by eight million cameras and lots of press, doing that name yelling thing.”

Taron sighs. The chances of that feel slim, but… ever increasing. He plays along. “Yeah, and no masks so you’ll be able to see my ridiculous, ‘holy shit’ expression about the whole thing.”

“God, I do want to guess.” Bleddyn waves a finger before Taron can say anything, though. “But I don’t need to know! Really.” He laughs. “Let’s see, they’re like, a bit more famous than you, I bet?”

“Oi,” Taron scowls. “I’m fucking A list.”

“Okay,” Bleddyn laughs. “Sure, boy. Um, is it Thomas Hardy?” 

Taron giggles. “Yeah. I stole Tom Hardy from his wife, we’re absolutely having an affair.”

“It’s… god, who’s more famous. It’s—” Bleddyn’s eyes get big. “It’s Wolverine.” He whispers then. “ _Taron are you fucking weapon X?_ ”

Taron guffaws. “No! You wish. You _wish!_ Well.” He pauses, ponders it for a second. “ _I_ wish, actually. _”_

“He holds a picture of you and strokes it, you’re Jean Grey, oh my God.”

“No, I’m not. I am Gambit, either Gambit or Beast and you _know this_ , B, you _know_ my X-Men preferences, Jesus.” 

Bleddyn giggles with him, and the breeze kicks up some sparks from the fire.

“Seriously though, stop guessing because you’re going to get it right and then I’ll have to tell you a bunch of graphic romantic details.”

“Okay okay, cool. I’d be fine with that though.” Bleddyn waggles his eyebrows. “Is it, uh, you know… is the, ah, movie star sex—” he smirks suggestively, “really good?”

Taron laughs, loud and embarrassed and also not-very-secretly chuffed as hell. “You know what, mate, it is actually _quite_ alright. Not to get up my own, you know, but I’d even say it’s, like, _excellent._ ”

Bleddyn cocks an eyebrow. “Sexcellent?” 

Taron cocks a matching eyebrow. “Indeed.” And then he snorts with laughter. “Fucking hell. I love you. Toss me another?”

“Yes sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter we've posted since we actually finished writing the whole story. Let's hope Gary Barlow doesn't release an additional Christmas single tomorrow or something, because we're done with edits! And speaking of the old tart: sadly, or maybe amazingly, the drag name is not our brainchild but an actual thing. And if you don't believe us, please read it for yourself in [ this small excerpt from Gary's latest autobiography](https://64.media.tumblr.com/866410660fc1d2e07d0224484b29fdbf/791649c147d3e096-3a/s2048x3072/0762ad48d773340bcca2f2452245fc421376e31c.jpg). 😉
> 
> Thanks for coming along all month. If you're celebrating today and tomorrow, wherever you are or whoever you're with, stay safe and be well. Stay tuned for Chapter 25 tomorrow. ❤️🎄❤️
> 
> Coming up: It's not Christmas without a trip to the beach, right? Plus, Taron thinks back fondly on his week, and meets a new friend.
> 
> Happy Christmas Eve,
> 
> S & C xxx
> 
> P.S.: we've been saying it all month, and we'll say it again: manifestation is key. [Our boy made it to Aber](https://www.instagram.com/p/CJLbh7dlRK_/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)! Here, he's pictured clutching his sweetheart and sexily leaning against a Range. And even if nothing is right in the world, right now, we'd argue that all is actually right in the world. Fucking hell. ❤


	25. Bleddyn, Jack, Calvin, Tom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey mate, we forgot to give you your Christmas present.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it's Christmas, and because Taron David Egerton is a huge sap, our [song of the day](https://open.spotify.com/track/0DAmSYQW9kq9gQNDI002KP?si=JxeBC-KyTj-3Bz6fS52c-g) is by the queen herself, Joni Mitchell. It's a bittersweet one, but so (we suspect) is the end of this journey. For us, for you, and for our favourite Welsh teddy bear, who will be [dad-dancing his way into 2021](https://www.instagram.com/p/CJMa87CgsxV/?igshid=sa3wh6rayhb4).
> 
> Merry fucking Chrimbo 🎅🏻 Enjoy the last chapter ❤

Taron doesn’t get back inside until 4 AM, and when he does he has to take an interminable steamy shower because he’s frozen to the bone. Still, it was worth it. Absolutely bloody worth it, every minute. Bleddyn is… Well. He’s _it_ , for Taron. In a special, not necessarily romantic kind of way. Just important. And he will always be, really.

Going to bed at 5 means there’s no bloody way in hell that he’ll be up and running by the time the girls wake up, which is usually stupid early. (Tina has gracefully let him have the mince pie and shot of brandy they left out for Father Christmas—which he almost forgot to do before he retired to the bathroom, but luckily remembered at the last minute. Mince pie: 10/10, would bake again. Brandy: pretty decent, a solid 7. Carrot bite: he wishes he could have passed. Not a fan of raw carrots. 2/10.) And he’s downed an impressive quantity of beer, too, which isn’t as bad usually but, since he hasn’t been, like, _drunk_ drunk in a while, he knows he’ll definitely feel them in the morning.

On cue, Christmas Day brings Mari and Rosie excitedly jumping on Taron's bed, yelling for him to get up, and a solid holiday hangover. Alcohol is poison. Really. His poor head, his poor body.

He does drag himself out of bed to open presents with the girls. He gets presents too, even if he told Tina he didn’t want anything. She got him the usual two presents they get him every year, and without which it wouldn’t be Christmas—several bags of coffee from his favourite hipster place in Aber, a pair of novelty socks, and toothpaste, because they have a running joke that he’s always out of toothpaste. Guy got him a book, a new one from the crime novelist they both love, and he’s very chuffed. They don’t have many ‘things’, he and Guy, but gruesome noir fiction seems to be one of those.

He also unwraps some dog toys and treats for Nelly, which she welcomes excitedly with loud barking and tail wagging; among those, he discovers little baggies of green powder that he almost instantly recognises as catnip. He raises a sleepy and questioning eyebrow at Tina, and she just shrugs and dismisses it—the girls probably chucked it in the shopping basket at the pet store without her noticing. 

He doesn’t bother with breakfast, in fact, electing to swallow two aspirin tablets and fly back into bed for an additional few hours of kip before his big meeting with the boys after lunch.

*

“So last night was a terrible idea,” Bleddyn tells Taron as soon as they get a second on their own. He rubs his face with both hands to emphasise that he, too, seems to be suffering.

“That’s what you say every year, B. But you always come back to me.” Taron winks. Once again, it’s very, very hard not to kiss his cheek.

“Oi, love birds, anything to share with the class?” Tom hollers from a few yards away. 

Taron and Bleddyn turn around at the same time and flip him off. “Just best friends things. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Best friends,” Calvin scoffs, eyeing Jack knowingly. “What are you, twelve years old?”

“You’re just jealous of our love,” Bleddyn replies, grinning down at Taron.

“I love you all equally,” Taron explains. “Except Bleddyn, who I love most.”

And he does love them all (and maybe, probably, he does love Bleddyn most). Even if they can’t do anything except stand around on the sandy rocks and half-yell to each other, even if his face is cold and they’re all bent over their respective travel mugs of coffee like a bunch of freezing, miserable Dickensian factory workers on a break, it feels insanely good to be together. Tom sets his pack of cigarettes and lighter on a flat rock and backs carefully away. Taron then approaches and snaps them up to bum a smoke, setting them back down like Indiana Jones with that bag of sand at the beginning of _Raiders_. “Steady… steady…” He intones, clenching a lit ciggie between his lips. “Alright, there you go, Tom, thank you!”

The five of them stand like this, in a spacious semi-circle on their beach, laughing and talking and sharing stories from the fall and winter, until quarter to five.

“I’ve gotta run, fellas. I’ve cut it close, dinner’s in fifteen. Got to impress my girl’s parents and get there on time.” Tom gives them all a wave, and then he’s jogging off toward his car. After a while, Calvin and Jack are making their excuses too, and then it’s him and Bleddyn trudging over to the car park.

“See you before you know it, T.” Bleddyn wraps his arms around his own torso, giving himself a squeeze. “Come on, hugs. It kind of works.” Taron gives himself a hug too, and Bleddyn’s right, it almost works. It’s sad, but lovely too.

Driving back to the house, he enjoys glancing back in the rearview mirror to watch Bleddyn singing along to the radio, bobbing his head. After a few turns, Taron’s curious. Why’s Bleddyn still right on his tail? He lives on the opposite side of town. Hmmm.

Eventually, he pulls up into his mum’s driveway, and Bleddyn parks just a few car lengths away. What on earth. And actually, there’s Jack and Calvin’s cars too. He climbs out of the Range and looks up to see the two of them standing near the front door, along with Tom over by the front hedge. 

“Hey mate, we forgot to give you your Christmas present.”

Taron looks at them all in confusion. “What are you all doing here? I thought we weren’t doing anything.”

Tom steps forward. He’s holding something carefully to his chest, inside his coat. “Yeah, well. My girlfriend, her mum’s cat had kittens.”

Taron just stares at him, mouth hanging open. He must look like a guppy, but fuck it, this is too much. “No. You did not.”

“I didn’t! The _cat_ did.” Tom grins. 

“Oh my God.” He’s too excited. No way.

“I took two of them,” Bleddyn says. “That maxes me out.”

“And I’m allergic!” Calvin shrugs.

“So that leaves you,” Jack explains, matter of factly. “We all decided. It’s happening.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Taron tells them, smile spreading over his face. “You guys, fuck off.”

Tom reaches gingerly into his coat and pulls out a small, charcoal kitten with long, fluffy fur. “We’re giving you a baby cat, all of us. Your mum said it’s okay!”

And then Taron remembers, back when Tina and the girls visited a couple of weeks ago in London. She’d asked him if Nelly got along with other animals like cats or other dogs, and Taron had confirmed that yes, although she was wary at first, Nelly is absolutely a fan of other small domestic beasts. He’d thought at the time his mum was just worried about the neighbor’s cat, but it was all an elaborate scheme, he now sees.

He’s got four of the best and most loving mates in the world… and now, he’s also got a cat.

*

Taron gets out of the bathroom and walks back into his room to find the kitten, which is as much of a tiny black ball of fur as he was when Taron left him, all curled up against one of the old teddies that Tina still keeps around for some reason. And he can’t resist, can he, so he lies next to the stuffed toy, gets his phone out, and snaps a candid shot of himself lying on Star Wars bedding next to a mini baby cat. He looks tired, he has dark circles under his eyes, and if he stares a bit too closely he can feel his face is a tad puffy from all the cold and the alcohol of the past few days—but he’s fucking beaming, too. Just. Radiating pure bliss. 

He posts it immediately, captioning it _Help me find this tiny angry cloud a name? It’s a boy. Best Xmas present ever. @bleddyn38 @tomsbury @calvinjevans @jsync <3 <3 <3_

And the people, as they usually do, immediately deliver. After the plethora of absolutely pedestrian names he never in a million years would use—it’s all stuff out of his own movies, too self-referential, he’s not James bloody Franco—he spots a couple of genuinely good suggestions to which he drops a few hearts.

Craig McGinlay suggests ‘Sir Sean’, which to be fair would suit the little bastard quite well—he’s majestic, charming, and definitely would look the part as a Bond villain cat. Plus, it would be a nice homage. Taron grins and replies, _on my list xxx_ , adding perhaps a tad too many kisses just for the fuck of it.

Someone else throws ‘Hercules’ his way, and he seriously, seriously considers it for a good five minutes while he refreshes the feed to look for more brilliant insight, until he gets a DM notification from someone he’s heard from a lot, lately, and that he can’t seem to get enough of.

 ** _Fuckin cute_** , Robbie texts.

**_Name him after me?_ **

And Taron laughs, shakes his head at it all, and names his kitten after Robbie Williams.

*

 _Can I call you?_ Taron texts Colin, twenty minutes later. He’s in bed alone—Robbie the Kitten is snoozing away on his desk chair—and he’s all dizzy with happiness and maybe a touch too many glasses of that ultra decadent Bailey’s and vodka cocktail that Guy whipped up for him.

**_Yes, of course_ **

“Happy Christmas, Colin,” Taron says softly, right after the call connects. He’s lying in bed, phone pressed to his ear, the tip of his pinky finger between his teeth.

“Happy Christmas, Taron. It’s so lovely to hear your voice.” Colin sounds exactly like Taron looks; fucking exhausted, but also in seventh heaven.

“I just realised I’ve been waiting all day for this,” Taron replies, because it’s true. He feels a familiar warm feeling fill him while he stretches a tad and rests a hand on his lower belly, thrumming with anticipation.

“Me too. Thank you for the gorgeous presents, by the way. They got delivered this morning, while the boys were here. They didn’t understand why I wouldn’t open the package in front of them,” he chuckles, and Taron grins. “Turns out, it wasn’t anything naughty. Very classy, actually.”

“I learnt from the best.”

“Oh, shut up. I love them. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. You gave me the best Christmas present I’ve ever received—it was the least I could do, really.”

“Ah, about that.” Colin pauses, clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking, in the past couple of days.”

Taron feels something coming. And somehow, he starts dreading the rest of Colin’s sentence. He thinks of interrupting with a joke, but at the last minute he decides against it.

“Taron, I… I know we said that was your Christmas present, but I want to do something else.”

Taron breathes out the air he hadn’t even realised he was holding in. Fucking hell. It’s all good. It’s good, isn’t it?

“Oh. Right, okay. But you don’t n—”

“Let me reassure you: I’m not being overly altruistic, here. It’s for my own selfish benefit, as well. A _cadeau empoisonné_ , honestly.”

Taron’s more curious by the minute. “Do go on, please?”

“Well. I don’t know when you start working again, or how much time off you will get when you do, but… I’d really like you to come here. To Surrey. A weekend, or something. Just the two of us.”

“Col, that’s hardly…” Taron shakes his head, smiling at Colin’s humility or whatever’s fueling this. “You’re saying you want to whisk me away to the country for a private weekend, that’s hardly a poisoned cup, or whatever. Unless you intend to have me shovel your walk and do the gardening or something?”

“I could put you to work, if that’s what you’d like. But I was thinking more breakfast in bed—”

“Okay, yeah, say no more, this sounds hellish.”

“Shh. I just wasn’t sure.” Colin’s tone isn’t chastising, just fond. “I couldn’t be certain that you’d actually want to spend an entire weekend—”

“Are you _mad_?” Taron gently interrupts. “I believe you were there too, on Monday?”

“I’ve been thinking of Tuesday morning, actually.” Colin sighs into the receiver. “You know, Livia had an absurd number of mirrors put up around this place. I never saw the point in those.” He lets that hang in the air for a moment. “Until now.”

Taron feels a thrill rush through his body. He bites his lip and grins “Whatever would we need all those mirrors for?”

“Oh, you know it very well. Don’t make me say it.”

“I’d still like to hear it, if you don’t mind?” Taron holds his breath, listening to the charged silence.

“So I can look at you while I fuck you, of course,” Colin finally says, in a plain tone that suggests a hint of a smirk.

***

**_Tuesday morning_ **

Taron wakes up because his wrist is buzzing. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, at first—he rarely ever uses silent alarms on his Fitbit (or his Fitbit in general, really)—but he quickly stirs awake and thanks his past self for waking up in the middle of the night and remembering to set it. He has to somehow drag himself out of bed, shower, leave this whole idyll, get home, pick up Nelly, pack, get back in the car, drive for several hours…

Fine, it’s fine to let it overwhelm him for a while, isn’t it? He lies in bed for a few minutes, arms over the covers, staring at the ceiling; he really doesn’t want to leave. He turns to his right, to check whether he might have imagined everything that happened yesterday afternoon and evening, and smiles in relief when he sees the other side of the bed not empty, but very much occupied.

He contemplates waking Colin for a second, but he looks so peaceful and in need of sleep that it feels like a crime to stir him. So, he doesn’t; he just slips out of bed as quietly as he can. He’s naked, he remembers with a satisfied grin—he’s just spent the night naked in bed with Colin Firth, fuck yes—as he makes his way to the bathroom. 

Showering in the morning is usually not his style, but he couldn’t have left here without taking advantage of the luxurious facilities of this dream hotel room at least once more. He’s halfway through washing off last night’s sexual excess under a stream of warm water pouring down from the _gorgeous_ copper shower head that he now absolutely needs in his own bathroom—it’s got major potential to be an eyesore in his extremely minimalistic Scandi pad, but he’s not sure he gives a damn—when he hears light noises coming from the bedroom. He turns the handle to cut off the stream and opens the shower curtain just a tad, to have visibility on the entrance. He picks up a tiny bottle of shower gel from the side of the tub and squeezes a bit out on his palm, inhaling the clean, fresh scent of it as he lathers it everywhere.

He keeps his back to the door so he can splash and soak up as much steamy goodness as possible, but also keeps looking over his shoulder, just in case. A few seconds later, Colin appears in the doorway. He’s also completely naked, his hair is absolutely _everywhere_ , and as usual, he looks even better like this than when he’s all coiffed and groomed.

“Good morning,” Colin greets him with a small smile, stepping out into the light of the bathroom. Taron can see him now, all of him. And he can’t help noticing how hard Colin is, appreciating the handsome curve of his cock against the dark curls that frame it. Honestly, it’s gorgeous.

“Good morning,” Taron says back, switching the shower back on and grinning. Every ounce of shyness he might have felt yesterday seems to be gone, he realises, as he purposefully arches his back and pushes his butt out a bit more, foamed-up shower gel trickling down his body, his cock almost immediately responding to the performance element of all this. “Sleep well?”

“Amazingly well, thank you,” Colin says, running a hand through his hair, likely in an attempt to tame it. He doesn’t quite manage. His other hand seems to almost mindlessly rest on his lower abdomen, close to his proudly bobbing erection. And as much as he likes showing off for Colin, Taron reckons it’s probably time to take care of that.

Taron steps out of the tub as gracefully as he can, never breaking eye contact. He tries reaching for the bathrobe, but a second later Colin’s there, and already kissing him, one hand on his face and the other on the curve of his lower back, water dripping everywhere and no fucks given about it.

“I…” Taron starts, as soon as he gets a breather. “I also slept well, thanks for asking.” He looks up at Colin and watches his expression change into that familiar and terribly endearing half-frown when he wraps a hand around his cock. “You’re in fine form this morning, old man.”

“I’m starting to think you might have it in for me,” Colin says, low and hushed. He grins, thrusts into Taron’s fist, and properly cups Taron’s bare buttock.

Taron quietly gasps, leaning in and raising on his tiptoes to demand another kiss, and Colin obliges him, all the while stirring them towards the sink. Taron feels the cold porcelain against his bare bottom as Colin presses him into it, and a gust of air from the door closing—Colin has likely kicked it closed, not sure why, probably to keep the warmth inside?

They part again and Colin starts kissing down his neck, his collarbones, his sternum. And Taron thinks of something then, and absolutely cannot help himself. “Wait a minute,” he whispers in a small voice, and it’s hard to refrain from chuckling at the sheer silliness of it all. “Nice boys don’t kiss like that.”

Colin immediately looks up from his work and gives Taron a big grin. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“C’mon.”

“Absolutely not.” He rolls his eyes, clearly loving this in spite of himself.

“For me?” Taron bats his eyelashes and moves his hand with more purpose.

“Behave, Taron.”

“Make me.”

There’s a glint in Colin’s eyes as his hand travels up from Taron’s pec to the hollow between his clavicles, and then up again, long fingers caressing the side of his neck and thumb grazing his Adam’s apple. “I’ve been wanting to try doing just that. I think I had a dream about it, actually. You. And my hand, just here.” He moves his hand to fully cup Taron’s throat. “Like this?”

Taron swallows, and the gentle, warm pressure of Colin’s palm against his throat feels like an invitation. He gives Colin’s cock a friendly squeeze in return, and they both pause then to just breathe, bodies rubbing against each other in exactly the right places. Taron casts his eyes down between them as much as he can with Colin’s hand just under his chin, then looks up to meet his gaze. 

“Yeah, that’s about right. Try to press more on the sides though, less on the front?”

Colin adjusts his grip. “Better?”

Taron feels it instantaneously: the rush of blood to his face, the pleasant high. Colin’s hand is big, much bigger than he’s used to, and it’s—

“Yeah,” he says, hushed, nodding and pressing more into the touch. “Yes, perfect.”

Colin grins, then turns to his left and grins some more. Taron follows his gaze, and sees them in the full length mirror on the back of the door.

“There. Look how fucking beautiful you are,” Colin says, squeezing a tad harder and dragging a deep sigh out of Taron. 

“Thank you,” Taron says, obligingly, because he remembers what that did to Colin yesterday. “Please,” he adds, for good measure.

*

The tops of Taron’s thighs are digging into the sink and his entire body shakes with the intensity of Colin’s thrusts. The fact that he can watch it in the mirror, see the coil and release of Colin’s muscles each time he rocks in, is enough to make him dizzy. 

They line up perfectly in so many ways, even though Colin’s taller and bigger in almost all respects. His long, lithe arms fit perfectly around Taron, one hand next to his on the pedestal sink and bracing them both in place. The other hand, of course, still holds him by the throat. Maybe it’s his professional skills, his actor’s intuition or something, or maybe he’s more experienced in these sorts of things than he’s given Taron to believe, but Colin is a _natural_ at this. The pressure’s perfect, just enough to lock his mind into focus, still letting him breathe and moan in time with Colin and keep his gaze turned toward the mirror.

“Is this what you wanted?” Colin asks, his ridiculously calm voice right next to Taron’s ear. There’s only the slightest rough edge in his speech to betray how actually wrecked he must be. 

Taron nods. God, is it ever. This time around, Colin has started to feel familiar. There’s a bone-deep gratification in it for Taron, knowing that he’s begun to learn what Colin feels like. The length of him, and the smooth, powerful motion of his thrusts, the extra time he takes, pausing sometimes when he’s all the way in to let Taron feel the stretch, before sliding back out almost completely and then hammering home again. And always, _always_ this relentlessly firm but caring hand around his throat, holding him close and safe. He arches his hips back against Colin, chasing the feeling, wanting to take him deeper. 

“You’re so _good_ ,” Colin tells him, biting off his own gasping breath and driving in again. And just like every time, Taron feels the words through his entire body. He lets out a little sob as Colin drives in again. “Look.” Colin applies some pressure on the side of Taron’s neck and gently turns his head to have him look forward, and slowly thrusts in again.

Thanks to yet another mirror, the one above the sink, Taron witnesses in real time what that does to his own face—the way his eyes roll back a tad and the corners of his mouth curl up into a little elated smile. He meets Colin’s eyes in the glass, and sees him lean in, and then feels his soft lips and the pleasant tingling sensation of his beard as Colin presses a kiss behind his ear and smiles against the short hair on the side of his head. 

“Fuck,” Taron breathes, because every resemblance of eloquence is now lost, lost inside those deep brown eyes, lost to the way Colin’s fucking him and holding him and playing with his breath so efficiently, having him gasp for air one second and beg for more the next. 

Sometimes he doesn’t even have to; sometimes, he just catches Colin’s eye in the mirror, parts his lips to breathe deeper, and just rests into Colin’s palm a bit more, and he knows it’s working when he feels Colin’s dick grow harder inside him and his grip tighten, his rhythm speed up. It eventually slows back down to a pleasant—if a little excruciating—deliberate pace, until the cycle starts again.

And if today was literally any other day of the year, Taron would ask Colin to keep him like this all day: make love to him gently, fuck him hard, pause, resume, fast, slow, whatever. He wants all of it. He wants time. In all these never-ending, monotonous fucking weeks and months, now he’s finally got something that he wants to last forever. Colin speeds up again, starting to get that frenzied sort of edge to each thrust. Taron lets it carry him too, as his own movements lose their grace and fall into a kind of heated abandon.

There’s not enough time today. There’s no time, and this is too perfect, too good. He gasps Colin’s name and gets his own back in answer, and gulps for breath against the implacable press of Colin’s fingers. Holds the air, lets his lungs start to tingle and burn, and takes his own cock roughly in hand. 

“You first.” Colin’s voice sounds like he’s lost but barely hanging on, breathless and rough. Taron nods again, urgently agreeing. The permission is all he needed. Two strokes and he’s almost there, a third and he’s losing it, brain falling into a hiss of glorious static as he gasps in a shaking breath and comes, so hard that his overworked muscles threaten to cramp. On instinct he arches back again, pressing into Colin with his bum and bracing harder against the sink. Their fingers slide together and then Colin’s hand is over his, holding him there as well.

“Good,” Colin gasps. “Good, _fuck_ —” and then his hand on Taron’s throat slips away to grab at his shoulder instead, rough and uncontrolled as his own orgasm takes him. Colin leans over Taron shoulder and kisses him, and it’s all a haze, their bodies still fused into one and their breaths mixing, and it’s messy, and it’s one of the best kisses they’ve shared.

A minute later, they’re still kissing, but Taron’s facing Colin and grinning and pressing his sticky lower abdomen into Colin, just for the sole purpose of being annoying. Because that’s how he sometimes is right after mind-blowing sex.

“Right, so. We need to get you cleaned up, don’t we,” Colin says, matter-of-factly, refusing to be provoked. He pushes the tips of his fingers through the mess on Taron’s belly and tuts in faint concern. 

Taron scowls in mock irritation. “I literally _just_ took a shower.” 

And Colin laughs breathlessly, open and joyful. “My god, I apologise.” 

“It’s fine, I’m just filthy again. This is fine.” He grins at Colin, shrugging. They may be almost out of time, and he hates that, but he refuses to give even a second of it away. 

“Help me get clean?”

“I was just going to offer.”

Taron nods, and plants a kiss on Colin’s skin without moving his face from where it rests against his chest.

“Yeah, get in the shower with me, old man.”

Colin laughs again. “There’s only so many times that trick can actually work, from a purely practical standpoint.” He sighs then, and turns to look at them both in the long mirror again. Taron meets his eyes there, in the reflection. 

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Taron replies, covering the back of Colin’s hand with his and entwining their fingers. “I can wait.”

***

Taron inhales sharply, thrilled at Colin’s candor and awash now in memories from their last time together. So Colin’s ex-wife plastered their country house with mirrors, and Colin’s happy about that now, understandably.

“Goodness, Colin. Nice boys don’t talk like that.”

“Oh yes, they fucking do,” Colin delivers, without a hint of hesitation.

Taron chuckles, giddy and ridiculously turned on. He wants to tell Colin—how much love and gratitude he’s feeling, right now, deep in his heart. He probably would have, in any other circumstance: he’s no stranger to just saying it, _I love you_ , frank and open and direct, to any person whom he feels is deserving of it. But it’s different, now, with Colin. It wouldn’t mean what it means for everyone else. It already doesn’t. And it’s too soon, of course, to drop that kind of bomb. Even if it’s Christmas. Even if at Christmas one is supposed to be able to say whatever one feels. Even if he wants to tell Colin, _I’m yours_.

(He knows it’s a sign of the bloody times, too, how much he craves this kind of attachment. This sense of belonging. Not _to_ someone; more like _with_ someone. He’s always been that kind of person, ever since he first got a proper crush on someone in middle school: he’s always been the one to instantly picture what his life would look like with them—first kiss, to wedding day, to fourth kid, to retirement home. He can’t reasonably lie to himself and not admit that he has definitely watched that movie in his head several times, when it comes to Colin.)

“Fucking perfect,” he says instead, fully meaning it. “Got you there in the end, didn’t I?”

“As if you ever doubted you would. You can get me to do anything, really, and you very well know it. Taron, I…” Colin pauses, and Taron can hear him take a deep breath. He waits, but the rest of the sentence never comes.

Taron’s heart starts beating even more frantically. He has to at least try it, he reasons with himself.

“I know,” he replies, hoping to God he’s correct in channelling Han Solo here. Fuck, this is one of his childhood dreams come true, on top of an impromptu declaration.

“You do?” Colin asks, with palpable emotion in his voice.

“Yes, Colin, I do. And me too, by the way.” This isn’t _quite_ the way he’d normally say it, but he’s rolling with it nonetheless. It’s easier, like this. Not actually saying the words. There’s more in these silences than there’s ever been in even the deepest conversations they’ve had in the past.

“Good. That’s… Good. You’re making me very happy, right now.”

“You are t—”

“And I meant to say—sorry it took me so long. Should have… This would have probably happened sooner, if I hadn’t been such a giant fool all these years.”

Taron sighs. Once again, they’re on the same page. But also, he needs to make something clear. “I’m sorry too, but to be completely honest… You didn’t miss anything, if that’s what you fear. I’m happy this is happening now. I mean, it’s still absolutely mind-blowing, don’t get me wrong, but… I can _deal_ with it, now? If that makes sense.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and tells Colin the truth. “Six years ago, it would have fucked with my head.” He huffs a little laugh. “Probably turned me into one of those entitled young industry arseholes, you know.” 

“Never,” Colin replies, chuckling benevolently. “You’re too nice a person, for any of that.”

Taron raises an eyebrow that Colin won’t see, but that he hopes Colin will know is there.

“Are you kidding me? Fine, I’ll paint you a picture, then, shall I? 24, fresh out of drama school, cast as the lead in one of the biggest budget action movies of the year. Add to that a tryst with Colin Firth? And what next, the keys to the town and an OBE? Please, Col, I would have snapped like a twig.” He chuckles, picturing himself as a token toy boy, too big for his boots, possibly channelling Eggsy a tad too much, in a sharp suit on a red carpet, Colin on his arm. Well. Some version of that could still happen, to be fair. Maybe. In some wild world, if they’re lucky. God knows enough wild things have happened lately to make that seem more possible.

Colin guffaws. “Oh, well. I’ll still elect to believe you could have gotten all of that and much more, even back then, and stay just as sweet a human being. You were always remarkable. I have to agree though, now… Now you’re wonderful.”

Taron blushes and most definitely swoons, letting himself fall back against the giant pile of cushions on his bed. “I would like you to know that this is one hundred percent going to my head.”

“Perfect. Let it. I suspect I can pinpoint the exact shade of crimson your face has turned to, in fact.”

“Oh, I bet you can, too. Hey, Col?” 

“Yes, Taron?”

“I really want to kiss you, right now.”

“I know. Soon, alright?”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Now, let’s get some sleep, shall we?”

“Good call. Fucking knackered.” Taron sighs. “Thank you, Col. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Taron. Talk tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Yes. Talk tomorrow.”

*****

 _ **ze end**_ 🎄

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dries tears* We hope you enjoyed the ride. We also hope that, wherever you are and whatever Christmas has been to you this year, you've had good times with your loved ones and enjoyed some festive treats.
> 
> We're throwing all the good vibes your way, and leaving you with perhaps our favourite thing, and what more or less brought the two of us together this year (on top of Taron, of course, that goes without saying): the gift of music. You'll find our complete playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6q5A0pehkkTjN9Beotp9Rz?si=pxyZ66FHRGe26ztyBHNFkQ). We hope that, if you ever feel down or out of it and need a little pick me up, you can revisit this story via it (or just revisit the story, full stop).
> 
> It's been an honour having you with us this month, we can't wait to be back with more stories in the new year.
> 
> Lots of love,
> 
> S & C xxx


	26. Boxing Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alright alright, let me find him. He's tiny, this might take a minute._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out that quitting cold turkey (pun fully intended) really isn't like us.
> 
> So here, have this. It's just a teeny tiny epilogue, but we hope it'll help ease those Boxing Day blues.
> 
> Enjoy! 💙💙💙

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays from our favorite OC, Robbie The Cat.
> 
> Love, S & C xx


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